Resurrexit
by Master Slytherin
Summary: Ten years later. All was well ... until Harry's wife dies under suspicious circumstances. Harry will not rest until he has vengeance. Neville is tasked by the Ministry with uncovering the truth before the Chosen One does something he will regret ...
1. Death of an Alley Rat

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on the characters and world created by JK Rowling. Anything you do not recognise is my own creation. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

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 _To Linus: without your father, this story would not exist._

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'No spell can reawaken the dead' – _Albus Dumbledore_

 _The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death._

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– CHAPTER ONE –

 _ **Death of an Alley Rat  
**_

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A man, terrified, darts through the heavy darkness of Knockturn Alley. His squat legs carry him away from his impending doom. He tries once more to Apparate, but to no avail. He glances over his shoulder, his bloodshot eyes wide and lidless. But, naturally, his pursuer is nowhere to be seen.

He hesitates. The Alley is utterly still; nothing moves. There is a chance – a sliver of a chance – that Death has found new prey. Pipe hanging limp in his mouth, he comes to a stuttering halt. He is wheezing and wracked with pain, but his eyes are active, darting this way and that, intent on finding the predator.

The crooked Victorian buildings that once signified all he cared about in the world - making a quick Galleon - seem to close in around him. Each one could be in league with Death, each one could betray him.

A sudden breeze picks up and autumn leaves caress his shaking ankles. With it comes a fell voice …

'Mundungus … Mundungus …'

 _Clang!_

The sound of his own pipe hitting the cobbled street makes him jump a foot in the air. In an instant, he draws his wand and fires a hopeful spell into the distance.

Can he hear laughter, or is he imagining it?

He takes flight once more, sure now that Death is playing with him first before it delivers the fatal strike.

His pounding footfalls and quick, rasping breaths pierce the silence. He searches desperately for an avenue of escape, or a safe haven.

Then he disappears; the only sign of him is the gently swinging door of the nearby tavern. But that is the only sign Death needs.

The tavern is almost empty. A ceiling of smoke writhes like a menacing weather system. Its source is a group of hags in the corner whose skin is as green as the crumbling wallpaper. The boil-covered barman scrubs a lop-sided table with a cloth filthier than the surface.

A gust of wind whistles through the establishment, plunging it into darkness.

The darkness is pierced by a brilliant green light that illuminates the pub. Then another. And another.

The candles relight. Only two figures remain standing.

One is Mundungus Fletcher, disguised as a hag. He desperately clambers over the two dead hags in an attempt to get clear of the other figure: Death. But there is no escape.

Knowing this, Mundungus shouts, _'Premo!'_

Death bats away the curse with the merest flick of its wand.

 _'Delibro! Fammipio! Lacero! Avada Kedavra!'_

Death side-steps the Killing Curse with ease and laughs.

'You dare use that curse against me?'

Its voice is barely above a whisper, but causes Mundungus to freeze in horror.

'Y – You?' mumbles Mundungus, his wand trembling.

'That stick is no longer of any use to you,' says Death.

A jet of golden fire issues from Death's wand and races towards Mundungus'. Upon contact, Mundungus' wand explodes, showering the floor with sawdust. Mundugus stares, aghast, at the spot where his wand had once been. He falls to his knees. Slowly, he looks up at Death.

'P – Please, 'ave mercy!'

Death places the tip of its wand on Mundungus' forehead. Mundungus clenches his eyes shut and mumbles a prayer. His fear trickles down his thighs and forms a sodden pool around his knees. The stench of it hangs in the air.

'Do you deserve mercy?' whispers Death.

'E – Ev'rythin' I've d-done … c – circumstances …' Mundungus' quivering voice is barely audible.

'Circumstances? Yes, I can understand that. You see, thief, circumstances called me here tonight.'

''Ave anythin'! Y – You want g – gold?'

Mundungus' produces a bag from his pocket. Death throws back its head and laughs. 'Gold?'

Death lowers its wand and Mundungus' eyes open, renewed hope mingled with the fear. But Death has other plans. With the merest hand movement, Mundungus' bag of gold goes the same way as his wand and he stares, horrified, at the plume of golden rain.

'I have no need for your metal trinkets, thief. You have nothing I need, nothing but information; information I could get from any other Alley rat.'

'A – Anythin' … please …'

'Some days ago,' says Death, 'I finally came to claim Harry Potter. But I was unsuccessful.'

'W – What?' breathes Mundungus, staring up into Death's black hood.

'Were there any eye-witnesses?'

'B – Bu' y – you –'

'Consider your wand and bag of gold. Consider, next, your head and answer me.'

'I s – swear I don' know!' cries Mundungus. In his blind panic, he yells, 'L – Lazarus! Lazarus migh' know. Swear to Merlin I don'!'

'Thank you, Mundungus.'

Death turns its back on Mundungus, much to the thief's relief. But the relief is short-lived.

Death disappears. The heavy silence of Knockturn Alley is disturbed by the deafening screams of a dying man.


	2. The Funeral

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on the characters and world created by JK Rowling. Anything you do not recognise is my own creation. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

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– CHAPTER TWO –

 _ **The Funeral**_

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It is pissing rain. It is the only thought running through my mind: my wife's funeral, and it couldn't even be sunny.

I am long soaked. My cloak sticks to me like a boa around its prey: first smothering, then devouring. I know that if I don't get out of here soon, the long, black cloak of grief will devour me too.

Everyone else at the funeral seems to sense my mood. They huddle together under umbrellas, as far away from me as possible. I don't blame them in the slightest. You don't need to see my face to know how I feel. Unstable.

We were married two weeks shy of ten years. No children, just an easy life.

Well, no longer.

It will never be ten years. Just … two weeks shy of ten years, forever.

When I found what was left of her, I did nothing but laugh. That probably contributed to the exaggerated reports in the _Daily Prophet_ about my sanity, but I really couldn't help it. It was the perfect end to my life. In the beginning, my mother died for me. In the end, my wife died … for me.

Now I mourn as a respectful husband should. People pat me on the shoulder, mumble some words about my terrible loss, and go back inside the funeral home to indulge in tiny sandwiches and tell each other how simply _dreadful_ this whole fiasco is.

The intense pain I feel at her death is counteracted by the intense liberty afforded to me. I am free to do anything, anything at all, because absolutely nothing matters. No laws can constrain me. No matters of conscience can weigh me down. There is only me, and my wand, and my vengeance. It is … liberating.

I think back on our wedding, mere months after I had killed Voldemort. We waited just long enough for the funerals to end, long enough to find a way to get married without the whole world being there.

As it turned out, the whole world didn't attend, but neither did the people that really mattered to me. Hermione had left for Australia. Ron was still in shock: shock, it turned out, that would last well beyond my wedding. Remus, the last link to my parents, was dead. Only two of my classmates had attended, and I had only invited one of them. Instead of Ron, Neville Longbottom was my best man. The other, Dean Thomas, was invited by my wife out of some crazy sense of loyalty to friends. But she was known for that, I suppose, so I shouldered my desire to do a quick Switching Spell on Dean for Ron, and we tied the knot quietly, one week into August, and two months in to our round-the-world trip.

Apart from the daily ups-and-downs of my job, my life was happy, and fulfilling. She found work as a librarian to supplement her career as a Magizoologist, and we slowly grew adjusted to life in England again.

She calmed my anger. I found solace in her wonders. I found peace.

And now she is gone.

The ancient, tufty-haired Master of Ceremonies puts his hand on my shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze.

'Go easy, Mr Potter. She's at peace now.'

'Thank you,' I say. 'That was a lovely service. She … would've really enjoyed it.' Bull-fucking-shit, my brain shouts at my mouth.

I am suddenly reminded of why I used to be so mad with everyone. Men like the Master of Ceremonies who think that a fancy song and dance will make everything okay. Witches and wizards who think that words are enough in an age of action.

I close my eyes and let the rain run down my face.

'Harry?' calls a tremulous voice I have not heard for a while. Hermione. Soaked to the bone, but still holding her umbrella high. Story of her life.

'Hermione,' I say, turning to look at her.

'Harry – I'm so, so sorry,' she says, as she takes a tentative step forward, and pulls me into a hug.

'I'm sorry too, Hermione,' I say, without any sorrow in my voice. That seems to upset her.

'I came as soon as I heard the news,' she says gently. 'I couldn't believe it …' Her voice, constricted with emotion, trails off. She takes my hand and pulls me underneath her umbrella.

We stand in silence, listening to the pattering overhead. 'How are you feeling, Harry?' she says.

'Fine …' She lightly squeezes my hand. 'I dunno … I s'pose I don't really feel anything. I mean, how can you feel when your heart's been cut out and buried six feet underground?'

'It isn't fair,' she whispers, leaning her sodden head on my shoulder. 'It isn't fair that you have to come here so often …'

A silence falls between us, pregnant with the memory of all those we buried here: Fred, Remus, Tonks, Mrs Weasley, Xenophilius, Hannah … As it stretches, I survey the huddle of umbrellas closest to me and notice a man with slick, black hair and wire-rimmed glasses. His clothes are crisp and dry yet he does not have an umbrella. He has disobeyed my request for no magic at the funeral.

'I've decided to move back, Harry,' says Hermione.

'You don't have to –'

'It wasn't right, running away like that –'

'It's not like you were the only one …'

'Don't excuse my cowardice,' says Hermione. 'You travelled to get away from the media circus. I – well, I was running away from _him_.' There is no doubt as to which _him_ Hermione was referring to. Ron's absence weighs as heavily today as it did the day of my wedding.

'It's good to have you back, Hermione.' I watch the man with the wire-rimmed glasses say his good-byes and shuffle away before I say, 'Do you believe the Ministry line?'

Hermione looks up at me. 'That it was spell experimentation gone wrong?'

Even hearing the lie from Hermione's innocent mouth makes me clench my fist. The idea that someone connected to me, one of the most hated men by the wizarding underbelly, could die in such a frivolous way is ludicrous. But I am keen for Hermione to give my alternative theory her blessing.

'Well … on one hand, speaking as the Magical Ambassador to Australia, I doubt that Kingsley's Ministry would lie about something as serious as this. We grew up with Fudge's Ministry, so we'll probably always suspect that the government is dishonest. But things have changed: there isn't the corruption there once was under Fudge.'

As a Director in the Unit, I know the long and short of corruption in the Ministry far better than she does. I bite my tongue, though, and let her continue.

'On the other hand, the explanation I read just doesn't seem likely. I mean, her interest was always magical creatures, not spell experimentation …'

'Exactly! She was murdered, Hermione.'

Hermione bites her lip. 'I don't know, Harry. It just seems a bit …' Her mouth sets as thougt this were just another problem she could talk through or find in the Hogwarts library. 'If we assume that they, whoever they are, were trying to attack _you_ , weren't there so many other surer ways to do it?'

'Well, they can't get me when I'm at work,' I say, 'the Department's impregnable now, after our little escapade in fifth year. And most of the places I visit outside of work still have the old protections from the war.'

'I suppose,' says Hermione, frowning. 'I tell you what, let me press the Ministry to re-examine the scene. I still have a bit of clout there.'

'Thanks, Hermione,' I say.

'And what are you going to do?'

'Well, I thought I'd take a look at the crime scene, too. It's my house, so I shouldn't have any problems. Then I'll ask some people I know – some informants for the Aurors – about what was happening in the shadows at the time.'

'That's a good start, Harry. Just make sure you don't overstep your bounds. There's serious tension between the Auror Department and the Department of Mysteries these days: they say Robards and Bogand are going to run against each other for Minister after Kingsley's next term.'

'You know how I feel about politics, Hermione …'

'I know, Harry. Just be careful, okay? We'll make sure this thing is settled … and then maybe you can come and stay with my parents and me. Some time on the beach would do you good. Every time I see you, you look paler,' she says, biting her lip. 'You could do with some sun.'

'All right, Hermione.'

'I'll drop by very soon,' she says, smiling, and embraces me once more, 'it _has_ been way too long.'

She strides away, and I stand back, pull up the hood on my cloak, and let the rain obscure my face. Any Ministry re-examination of Godric's Hollow will render the same conclusion as the first investigation. I do suspect, though, that I will need Hermione's brains before my search is up, and I deliver a speedy, painful death to my wife's murderer.

I have no intentions of waiting for the massive bulk of bureaucracy to heave itself in the general direction of apprehending some upstart Dark Lord who thought it would be 'evil' to kill Harry Potter's wife. No, I am going use all of my resources to track them down myself.

Most of the little jumped-up Voldemort impersonators I leave to the Aurors to deal with. They usually throw them into Azkaban for the night, ask them if they had made any lifestyle changes in the morning, then let the bulk of them go.

Every now and then, though, a serious one springs up, and we have to step in and do what the Aurors weren't quite sanctioned to. One of those types killed my first partner, Terry Boot; another killed the wife of my next partner, Neville; and, apparently, the next had assassinated my wife. There is only one solution in those situations: call in the Unknowables.

Counter to what Hermione, Ron, and everyone else know, I am not actually a normal researcher in the Department of Mysteries. While Neville and I do work inside the Department, it is not in any of the parts that I had seen in my fifth year. Despite what Dumbledore had told me, that final room in the Department of Mysteries is not filled with anything resembling love. In fact, as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Dumbledore was one of the few wizards who knew the truth.

Behind the door is a long staircase only accessible to those selected by the Head of the Department of Mysteries. The Unspeakables work upstairs: they couldn't say anything about their work even if they wanted to. 'The Unknowables' is a pet name for some of us Unspeakables whose work is so veiled in secrecy that we always joke that nobody could know us.

The Unknowables. How morbidly apt that name is. My wife died thinking I spend most of my time playing with prophecies.

A hand rests on my shoulder. 'Hello, Neville,' I say.

'Hey, Harry,' comes the sombre voice of my best friend. Little Neville Longbottom, the near-Squib. Who would have thought that he would be the very last line of defence for British wizarding society? Certainly not Hannah Abbot, who died and was buried in this cemetery without ever knowing what her husband did for a living. 'Look, mate – I know this hardly needs to be said, but I'm here to talk if you need it, all right?'

'Thanks, Neville,' I reply, and mean it. If there is any one person who understands me, it is Neville.

'She – she was a great woman, Harry,' he adds, somewhat nervously, his eyes roaming back and forth. 'She never let anyone convince her not to do what she wanted. Her dad used to say she got it from her mum, but I think she got it from you … she really did love you, Harry.'

'I know,' I say, brushing a drop of rain away from my eye.

Neville waves his wand discretely, casting a _Muffliato_ to secure our conversation. 'I know it doesn't make it any easier, but you spared her from having to worry every day.'

'Still wish I could've told her the truth.'

'She'd have been proud of you, Harry. She _was_ proud of you.'

'It's … not the same.'

'I felt the same way when Hannah died. It gets harder, Harry; I won't lie. It's hard to lie in bed at night and think about sleeping when you know you're responsible for the cold bed you're lying in. It's hard to wake up in the morning knowing the thing you're fighting for is something you've already lost.'

I chuckle softly. Neville's brutal honesty is a breath of fresh air. 'You're terrible at this, mate,' I say. 'You're supposed to cheer me up, not make me want to slash my wrists.'

Neville does not smile; his mouth is a grim line. 'You don't need cheering up, Harry. What you need is to see her murderer have his soul ripped out of him by a Dementor.'

'You're right. So you agree it's a murder?'

'It couldn't be more clear-cut. Bogand put me in charge of the case yesterday. Said it suited my temperament.'

Yes, Neville, with his clear logic and dogged enthusiasm is an excellent choice. 'I want to help,' I say. With Neville and I working together, the murderer stands no chance.

'You know you can't be part of it, Harry. Conflict of interest. We can't afford this to be anything other than by the book.'

'C'mon, Neville. When Hannah died, I let you be there as I ripped apart Lestrange.'

'And it was foolish. If he'd gotten past your defences, I would've been a blubbering fool with a stick trying to kill him. Instead of a "sudden heart attack", the Unit would have had to explain a double-homicide and a psychopath on the loose.'

'You know I wouldn't be —'

'You remember what it's like to be up against someone so deadly who's responsible for so much of your pain? You lose it, Harry. You do stupid things … Remember Sirius?'

'I need to —'

'What you need is to take some time off. I overheard what Hermione said to you. Take her up on her offer. Bogand'll give you compassionate leave. Spend some time. Find what's important to you.'

'I – I just …' I stutter. I can't see straight. Doesn't Neville understand what it is like to lose half of yourself? Doesn't he know that burning desire to capture the bastard, rip open his rib cage, and light his heart on fire?

'It's hard, Harry, I know that. But she was such a kind soul. Remember her, and ask yourself how she'd feel if she saw you so angry. Remember her.'

'Happy birthday, Neville,' I say, as the rain rolled down my face, heavy and salty.

'Happy birthday, Harry,' he responds, with only the utmost sympathy in his voice, before he wanders off to deeper parts of the cemetery.

And all of a sudden, I am alone at her grave.

I stand there dutifully – defiantly, even – until everyone has left. It takes another hour; my wife had been well-loved, and had far more friends than I will ever make in my life time. One by one, they all shuffle past me, patting my shoulder, shaking my hand, offering their condolences.

I shake hands with a teary Hagrid and hug a weepy Padma Patil as they shuffle past me and out of the cemetery. I exchange condolences with Lisa Turpin, Cho Chang, and even Susan Bones, before they, too, leave, no doubt to go find some place warm to drink a pint of Butterbeer. Dean Thomas gives me a grin, apparently trying to get me to lighten up, but nothing can induce me to smile. Not even the coldness in my legs can matched the coldness in my heart. Everyone is returning to their homes, to cosy up to their husbands, to share warmth with their wives, and I – I am standing here, rain cosying up to me, stealing my warmth, as I weep for the loss of my love.

I kneel before her tombstone. Wiping the rain from my eyes, and clearing the stinging tears that have fallen, I stare at it balefully, wishing it were a lie, hearing only the roar of the rain in my ears, smelling only the ghost of a scent of her.

'I'm sorry.' My words are raspy.

'I'm sorry I wasn't there. I promised you, when I married you, to love you, in sickness and health, and to protect you ...'

The rain answers with nothing.

'And I wasn't there.'

No sound comes.

'I'm sorry I couldn't be there to catch who did this to you.'

Silence, but for the rain.

'But you have my word … you have my Unbreakable Vow in death that I won't stop until I've found who killed you, and sent him to meet his fate.'

There is no shot of flame. Just... nothing.

I look up at the marble gravestone.

 _Luna Potter, born 26 September 1980, died 26 July 2007_

 _Friendship and equality to all._

'I'm so sorry, Luna,' I whisper. 'I'm so sorry. I need you … please … come back to me. Just give me one more day with you. A chance to say "good bye". I need you with me now. I can't stand this life by myself.'

I place her wedding ring on her grave, and cover it with dirt. 'This belongs to you. Just so you know … we're still married, you and me. You might've … you might've gone on, but I'll be married to you forever.'

'If only this ring could bring you back to me.'

Nothing.

'If only this ring could bring you back to me …'

Something.


	3. The Promise

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on the characters and world created by JK Rowling. Anything you do not recognise is my own creation. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

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– CHAPTER THREE –

 _ **The Promise**_

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Neville had never been one to doubt the world. He had seen his fair share of miseries and disasters. It came with the territory. Death Eater scum had tortured his parents to insanity; he eventually came to terms with it. Dumbledore, his hero and inspiration, died; he got over it. Former Death Eaters murdered his darling wife Hannah … well, he still struggled with that.

But to see Harry Potter, defeater of Lord Voldemort, so vulnerable and weak and broken … it made him doubt. This was a man whose life was defined by his losses, but still had the energy to lead the Unknowables to more arrests than it had ever known. There were times when Neville had doubted himself, where he was on the verge of quitting and it was Harry who made him believe, just as he had done at school.

As he turned from his best friend and slowly trudged through the mud towards the village church, he realised that the grief Harry was feeling was far from ordinary; Luna had been his foundation and support. Who would hold Harry up now? Hermione? She was too busy trying to get as far away from England as possible. Ron? He was too busy drinking himself to death. Bill? He had his kids and a heavily pregnant Fleur to think of.

'Is he alright, Neville?'

Neville met the eyes of Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic. 'He just lost his wife, what do you think?'

'I think you need to show more respect.'

Neville sized up the man. While a good Auror in his time, and a war hero to boot, Shacklebolt had weighed up as an uninspiring Minister. _Politicians will take the credit for our hard work. A good Unknowable is an invisible Unknowable._ Those were the words of Boris Bogand, Head of the Unspeakables. The public saw Shacklebolt as one of the most efficient Ministers since the dawn of the Ministry; Neville knew otherwise.

'Of course, Minister,' said Neville. 'Potter is deep in mourning; it would be inadvisable to disturb him.'

Shacklebolt nodded, a sure sign that Neville was dismissed. Needing no further encouragement, he made for the small gathering of people standing underneath their various umbrellas. He made eye contact with Bill, his only other friend, and they came to an unspoken agreement to leave. After all, they had both given Harry their condolences and paid their last respects to Luna.

Neville's expensive black leather shoes squelched against the muddy ground. It had been some weeks since the last drop of rain and the ground had not taken the sudden downpour well. From the corner of his eye, Neville saw Bill mutter his goodbyes. Sometimes Neville wished he could engage in casual conversation. He wished he could discuss the weather, or argue about Quidditch or, as was happening now, share in the grief. But conversation led to friendship, which led to more chances of secrets slipping.

Neville recalled the day he told Bogand that he was engaged, to be married. Bogand had doubled Neville's hours, thinking it would tear him and Hannah apart, but the relationship had instead gone from strength to strength. Hannah was that kind of girl. Neville closed his eyes and sighed. Her death still tore him up inside, but at least he had Alice. Harry ... Neville didn't like to think of what he was going through now. One thing was for sure, he had to be there for Harry; and being there for Harry meant finding and killing the wizard who killed Luna.

Neville looked up. The old village church was a modest building; it was not what Neville would call attractive, not that he could see the good in anything right then. Luna ... he had loved her like a sister. When Hannah had died, it was Luna who called round and cheered him up with far-fetched tales or one of her revolting casseroles. It was Luna who looked after Alice when Neville was working. It was Luna who had given him the confidence to try for the Department of Mysteries in the first place. Why did people around him die, or worse?

Neville, head down, trudged up the path that went around the side of the church. He was tempted, for a moment, to walk in. It was warm, bright and the buzz of conversation was oddly enticing. He thought, not for the first time, of taking Alice and living as a Muggle, where death would no longer plague them like a disease. He would come to a church like this one every Sunday, take Alice to a Muggle school and get a comfortable job for himself. But he knew he couldn't leave Bill and Harry behind. He owed them too much.

'You alright?'

Neville glanced over his shoulder. Bill, it seemed, had finally finished saying his goodbyes and had caught up. 'Yeah,' said Neville, 'I just can't believe it, Bill.'

'I know what you mean. As if Harry needed any more tragedies.'

'Yeah, and just when he was really happy, too ... '

Neville trailed off, glanced at Bill, and then settled for silence as they approached the pavement. Neither spoke. It was almost as though they were upholding a respectful silence for Luna. The only sound made by either man was their traipsing shoes.

They silently turned right into a road even quieter than the one they had left. A pigeon was perched on the rusting road name, lit by a failing street lamp. Neville tore his eyes away from the sleeping bird and took out his car keys as they approached his car; a 1996 Vauxhall Corsa, five door, dripping wet. Not exactly the height of technology, but he knew he wouldn't be able to use it if it were. The car was unspectacular, distinguishable only for the incredibly poor parking: the back wheel was mounted on the kerb while the front one was far out in the road. Beside him, Bill snorted.

'Nice parking.'

'I only passed last week, alright?'

'And how badly did you Confund him?'

'I had to pass! Alice's Muggle friends are starting to ask questions – we're the only family down our road who doesn't own a car. She's been badgering me to drive for a year now.'

'I think they're going to realise something's wrong with parking like this.'

' _Wingardium Leviosa!'_ Neville lifted all two tonnes of car and straightened it.

'Yeah,' said Bill, shaking his head, 'because _that's_ something you can get away with in Muggle suburbia.'

'There's no pleasing you, is there?' said Neville, managing a strained smile. With a flick of his wand, he unlocked all four doors and slipped into the front seat. Another jab and the Supersensory Charm had been applied. Neville turned on the ignition and the car roared into life. The low, reassuring voice of WWN's news anchor blasted out of every speaker, interrupted only by the gentle patter of rain hitting metal.

' _... Dozens of mourners have been said to be attending the private funeral of Harry Potter's late wife, the eccentric Luna Potter. WWN has been on the streets today to gauge public opinion on the tragic death of the First Lady of the wizarding world. John MacLeish reports.'_

' _Yes, Terry, I've been in Hogsmeade all day today and I can tell you that the mood is melancholic. Well-wishers have been queuing outside the post office for hours, all hoping to send Mr Potter messages of support. I have here Darius Mosley, a local village boy. Darius, what would you say to Harry Potter if he were here?'_

' _Don't be sad, Mr Potter, you're the best wizard in the whole wide world. I've got posters ...'_

Neville turned it off and settled instead for the frantic swishing of the window wipers. He put the car into gear and lifted the clutch. Too fast: he stalled.

'You're sure we shouldn't just Disapparate?' said Bill.

'The neighbours saw me leave with the car – they'll be asking questions if I came back without it. I don't know why Harry didn't just use a Muggle-repellent on the church.'

'You know what he's like …'

'I guess that's why we love him,' said Neville distantly. On the second try, he managed to move the car off. Fortunately, Bill's house would only be a ten minute drive.

'He thinks it's murder,' said Bill, breaking the silence.

'He told you that?' said Neville, trying to keep dubiety out of his voice.

'No, but you can just tell. It was written all over his face. He wants revenge.'

Neville gripped the steering wheel a little tighter than usual: he hated lying to Bill. 'Revenge? Bill, he works for the Department of Mysteries – he's not a Hit Wizard.'

'He killed You-Know-Who; he's not exactly a lightweight, either.'

'He'll call in special favours and get the best Aurors on the case, nothing more. He's not the Chosen One anymore.'

'You-Know-Who underestimated him, too.'

'That was ten years ago.'

Neville turned right and the car juddered like a giant was shaking it. He glanced down at the gear stick and realised he was in fourth gear: too late, he had stalled again. 'I hate driving,' he muttered, as he switched the ignition off and on again.

'You've got to hand it to the Muggles, though; they've made a lump of metal that can travel pretty damn fast.'

'When the driver's a Muggle …'

'At least we're nearly there.'

'Thank heavens for small mercies.'

They danced around the issue of Luna's death for the next five minutes until they finally turned left and a sign in front of a neatly trimmed hedgerow told him it was Northey Avenue. The rain had died away; the only sound that could be heard was the humming of the engine. As he slowed down, Neville glanced right. Every house on the winding road looked utterly identical. Large and brown, with garages and at least three cars each on the gravelled drives. Number thirty-nine, he counted, number forty-one, number forty-three. Finally, he came to number forty-five and pulled into the drive and switched off the engine.

Even under the glare of his headlamps, number forty-five, Northey Avenue stood out like a goldfish in a river full of salmon. It was a small, yellow bungalow with a red door that, to an ordinary person, would seem almost impossible to fit through. The drive was overrun with moss to the point where it looked rather like a green carpet. Other than his, there were no cars, or indeed a garage to put them in. Unlike numbers forty-three and forty-seven, it had a small red chimney poking through the tiled roof. It remained by far the best house Neville had ever seen.

Neville rose out of the car awkwardly and locked it with his wand. His thighs ached having been tensed throughout the journey and his knuckles were white, having gripped the steering wheel for dear life. He looked up to see Bill walking through the open doorway, which he knew to have grown in size, and Neville quickly followed his friend through.

From the inside, the house looked twice as large as the others around it. The entrance hall was a comfortable size and had been painted a neutral beige. A flight of stairs rose to his left and another on his right. Straight ahead was a small corridor. Neville took off his shoes and waited as the shoe shelf edged forward and scooped them up before scuttling back to its resting place near the foot of the stairs.

'Daddy!'

Neville braced himself as the love of his life jumped into his open arms. For the first time that day, he smiled as he thought of how much he had missed Alice without even knowing it, while running his hand through her long, blonde hair. When she pulled away, he studied her face, making sure she was okay. Her resemblance to Hannah was remarkable: the same hair; the same round, pink face; the same button nose. The only thing she shared with Neville was his small, brown eyes.

'Did you have fun with Auntie Fleur?' he said.

'Yeah! Me and Dom –'

'Dom and I.'

'Dom and I read _The_ _Tales of Beedle the Bard_ with Auntie Fleur.'

'Did you now?' Neville looked up in time to see Fleur and Bill finish their embrace. Fleur, who looked radiant despite her bulging stomach, greeted Neville with a kiss on each cheek. 'I hope she wasn't too much bother.'

'No, no, no, of course not,' she said, her English nearing perfection; even her accent had faded a little. 'Alice is wonderful – Dominique not so much.'

'She's just like her old man,' said Bill.

'Exactly!' said Fleur, feigning indignation. 'She is the one I must keep my eye on, but with Alice around, she is manageable.'

Alice flushed at the praise, but appeared uncomfortable at her best friend being criticised. 'Did you manage to get them all to sleep, then?' said Neville, surprised at the house being deadly silent for the first time in his memory.

'Victoire is sleeping, but Dominique is pretending to do so. She refused to sleep with Alice at home.'

'That's my Dom,' said Bill.

'You will stay for tea, no?' said Fleur briskly.

'Merlin, no,' said Neville, glancing at his watch. It was already nine-thirty and, at six years old, that meant Alice should have been in bed half an hour ago. 'Thanks so much, but I've got to get this one into bed.'

'She can sleep around here with Dom if you want,' said Bill, causing Alice to bristle with excitement.

'No, you've already done so much – I can't thank you enough. But she's going to Andromeda tomorrow and I daresay those two will be up into the small hours of the morning if they're allowed together again.'

'Yeah, that was my fault,' said Bill sheepishly.

'Hey, I've got the day off on Wednesday,' said Neville, 'so if you want to dump the kids around mine and take a well-earned break, then feel free to.'

'You are kind,' said Fleur. 'You are sure you do not want to have a quick drink?'

'I'm sure. Thanks again for looking after Alice, Fleur, you're a star.'

'It was a pleasure, Neville, a pleasure like always.'

The shoe shelf scuttled forward again and spat both his polished leather shoes and Alice's dainty purple plimsolls. As soon as he put them on, the door behind him swung open, letting in a cool breeze.

Fleur swooped down on Alice and embraced her as she would her own children. ' _Au revoir, ma Cherie.'_

' _Au revoir, Tante.'_

An indirect benefit of Alice spending so much time around Bill's family was her rapidly developing French. Fleur had made sure her children spoke it fluently; partly to keep her traditions alive, and partly to annoy Bill, who had real trouble speaking it.

Bill shook his head at Neville, who returned a sympathetic smile. Within minutes, they had said their goodbyes and Neville was in the driver's seat once more, this time with Alice beside him. For the first time since he began driving, he did not stall pulling out of the drive and into the road.

For ten minutes, Alice recalled in great detail her activities with Dominique. Neville barely had enough time to put in a few words before she interrupted him with something else she had remembered. When she had displayed all the new French she had learned, she frowned: a sure sign that a difficult question was coming. It was the same look Hannah gave him when he returned from twelve-hour shifts at the Department.

'Daddy, why did the second brother want to bring people back from the dead?'

Neville gripped the steering wheel a little harder. 'What?'

'In _The Tale of the Three Brothers_ , the second brother wants to bring people back. Why does he want to disturb people that are dead?'

'He missed his wife, honey.'

'But you said people that are dead are at peace. Why does he want to disturb their peace, Daddy?'

'Because sometimes, when you love someone very much, you want them with you no matter what.'

He pulled into their drive and switched off the engine. They slipped out of the car and Neville locked the car with a discreet jab of his wand. Their house was far smaller than Bill and Fleur's; it had three bedrooms and was semi-detached: more than enough for the two of them.

After making sure Alice wasn't hungry, Neville helped bathe her, dried her off and picked out her pink pyjamas. Very soon, he had tucked her and her toy dragon, Flamey, into bed. Neville sat on the edge of the bed and picked up _The Free House-Elf_ , a children's story inspired by Dobby. Harry had invited him to the launch; the author adored the Boy-Who-Lived and, for once, Harry had accepted the invitation.

'Is Uncle Harry going to bring Auntie Luna back?' whispered Alice.

'I don't think so, honey.'

'But he loved Auntie Luna very much, too.'

Neville sighed and put _The Free House-Elf_ on the bedside table. 'Uncle Harry doesn't have the second brother's Stone.'

'But Dom said he used the Stone to beat that bad man.'

'His name was Voldemort, and Uncle Harry lost the Stone.'

'Daddy, why did Auntie Luna have to die?'

'It was her time to go, darling.'

'I miss her.' Her watering eyes narrowed and slowly she began to cry. Neville shuffled up the bed and held her trembling head against his chest.

'Oh, Alice, I miss her, too.' He felt like crying, too, but he had to stay strong for her. Instead, he held his darling girl in his arms and rocked her back and forth.

As her tears subsided, she said, 'Can I sleep with you tonight?'

'Of course, honey.'

He carried her to his bedroom, which was somewhat smaller than hers. Alice slept in his bed about once a fortnight: usually when she remembered her mother and grief would render her unable to sleep alone. Those nights, she curled up in his arms and cried herself to sleep. He knew Luna's death would hit her badly; Luna had become something of a surrogate mother in the two years after Hannah's death.

Neville laid her and Flamey down on the bed before joining them. He began stroking her hair once more, hoping it would soothe her.

'Daddy,' she whispered, 'promise me you'll never die.'

Neville had once vowed that he would never lie to Alice. But, in that moment, there was such crushing desperation in her voice that he could say nothing but, 'I promise.'


	4. Return to Godric's Hollow

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on the characters and world created by JK Rowling. Anything you do not recognise is my own creation. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

– CHAPTER FOUR –

 _ **Return to Godric's Hollow**_

* * *

Irony. It is not as though I am a stranger to it. But it is cruel irony that I am accustomed to. The 'if I hadn't tried to save my godfather, he'd still be alive' kind of irony. I can deal with that. Hell, I've been doing it for years.

But as I sit in the waiting room of the Ministry's only registered Mind Healer, I realise that this is something different. Something more … light-hearted. And it makes me smile – or, at least, it would if I could. When I had rallied for and almost single-handedly funded the Ministry's first Mind Healer, I never dreamed that I, the so-called 'Chosen One', would be a patient.

Yet here I am.

I can think of a hundred things I'd rather be doing than waiting for William Sayer to tell me things I already know. Top of that list would be avenging my Luna's murder. But, of course, the Ministry wouldn't like that. They'd prefer to protect their storybook hero. What would parents think if The Boy Who Lived To Kill Voldemort fell off the wagon? Think of the children!

My eyes are drawn to the glass coffee table; more specifically, the strange, marble statue slowly revolving above it. It looks like the glistening rubble remains of a once-great home ...

 _I did not think I would ever be here again. Godric's Hollow. My parents' house. Thick, dark ivy clings to the walls like a layer of green paint. The wild grass surrounding the cottage is so high it could hide a child. And the right side of the top floor still gapes, frozen in time._

' _Luna, I'm not sure about this,' I say._

' _Not sure about what?'_

' _About this!' I snap, annoyed at her feigned ignorance and perfect calm. 'All of this. Moving back to England, working for the bloody Ministry, abandoning your career and, above all, living_ here _of all places.'_

 _Luna cocks her head to one side and fixes me with one of her dreamy smiles. It is her way of telling me to shut the fuck up and stop worrying. I sigh._

' _Can we at least have an adult conversation about it?' I ask._

 _Ignoring my question, she pushes open the gate and practically skips down what had once been a lane._

' _Careful!'_

 _I hurry after her, wand out. She stops suddenly and stares at a large rock._

' _We could turn that into a sanctuary for Blibbering Humdingers,' she says._

 _I take her hand, partly to stop her from running off again. I try to get her to turn around, but she stares resolutely at the rock._

' _Honey, we have everything we could ever want. Why should we –'_

' _You need this.'_

 _Finally she turns around. My breath catches in my throat. There is no dreamy look. Only pain. And for the first time in my life, I see tears roll down her pale cheeks. When her father had died of dragon pox last year, there were no tears. But now they were falling freely._

 _I hold her close to me. Suddenly I understand. We practically fled after Voldemort's death. We – no, I – refused to dwell on the past. To check up on our friends. I had thought we could leave our grief behind in England. That we could have carte blanche._

 _I did not need this. She did._

' _We'll build that sanctuary.'_

'Harry?'

I am dragged from my thoughts by a man wearing the Healer's uniform of lime green robes with a crossed bone and wand etched on his lapel. William Sayer. I have met him once before, at the opening ceremony of the Mind Healing division. He seems to have aged decades since then. His pale eyes are blood-streaked and surrounded by dark rings, a far cry from the fierceness they had previously exhibited. He is somehow even whiter than I remember and this, combined with his sleek, black hair, gives him the look of a vampire.

He gives me a strained smile and indicates that I should follow him into his office.

The office is almost identical to the model the Archiwizard had shown me. With its wooden panelling and fur carpet, it has the feel of a log cabin. The entire back wall is covered in shelves that sink into the walls. The only shelf-free space is a small, frosted glass window directly behind Sayer's desk. Sayer sinks into a black, leather armchair and invites me to take a seat in the chamois leather sofa. Reluctantly, I acquiesce.

Sayer crosses his legs and peers at me over his wire-rimmed glasses. 'How are you, Harry?'

I am distracted by a movement to my left. I realise that a quill is poised over a piece of parchment on Sayer's desk. I clench my fist as I remember Rita Skeeter and her Quick Quotes Quill.

'Don't pay any heed to the quill,' says Sayer.

'I'd prefer it if you didn't use that,' I say, trying my best to sound measured and reasonable.

Sayer continues to smile and says, 'Of course, if that would make you comfortable.' As though it had heard its master, the quill drops to the table. 'You understand that, legally, I must take notes after our conversations. It will also help me to help you.'

I grunt, which he takes as consent. I almost laugh at the notion of this wizard helping me.

'So, how are you getting on?'

'Fine.'

Sayer waits for me to say more. Minutes that feel like hours stretch by; each second is punctuated by the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock by the door. If he thinks that I will spill my guts to avoid an awkward silence, he is very much mistaken.

Sensing this, he says, 'Do you know why you're here?'

'The Ministry ordered me to be here.'

'Do you really believe that?'

I shrug. Another wave of silence rolls in and I concentrate on the kaleidoscopic effect the window has on the morning light. He is out there somewhere. The wizard who killed her. I wonder if he has a family of his own; perhaps they are having breakfast now, and he is laughing at the idea that I am in pain.

Or, otherwise, he might be planning another way to win my Elder Wand from me. He will attempt, no doubt, to steal it from Dumbledore's tomb. Perhaps I should lay a trap there …

'I find,' says Sayer, interrupting my train of thought, 'that these sessions are most useful when we set objectives up front, and both agree to work towards them.'

I turn to face him. 'My one objective is to stop coming here.'

'Why do you say that?'

'Because I'm not crazy.'

Sayer shifts his position in his seat and gives a sympathetic half-nod. It is infuriating. Why can't he, Bogand, all of them, realise that I just need to be left alone?

'One doesn't need to be, in your words, "crazy", to benefit from these sessions. Sometimes it helps just to have someone to talk to.'

'No offence, but I don't need a stranger to talk to. I've got plenty of friends for that.'

'Do you?'

I am ready to reply angrily and reel off a list of names when I stop. Who is on that list? Neville, of course. Bill and Andromeda, while good people, are not exactly what I would call confidants. Hermione is barely in the country. Ron is never in a state to hold a conversation …

'How about we think of objectives later,' offers Sayer, 'and just have a general chat.' When I do not disagree, he continues. 'Let's talk about loss.'

I groan inwardly. Sayer seems hell-bent on making this as excruciating as possible.

'I know, I know,' says Sayer, who senses my thoughts. 'You're aware, of course, that I have done extensive research into the topic – something you were kind enough to fund.'

I nod, but it was Hermione's idea, really. She had noticed that a lot of wizards were struggling with their day to day lives; the British wizarding world had never experienced anything on the scale of the second wizarding war. Hordes of former Wandless had been brutalised and tortured; for many of them, their magic had turned inwards, not unlike Ariana Dumbledore's. St Mungo's simply could not deal with it. Hermione had tracked Luna and I down in Burkina Faso and unveiled her idea of creating a Mind Healer division. The idea had not appealed to Luna – probably because it came from Hermione – but I had agreed to put my name behind it.

'We humans are adept at building coping mechanisms in the face of loss,' says Sayer. 'For example, some people might become angry and destructive. Others might take to solitude. How did you feel when Albus Dumbledore died?'

I recall my foolish anger at Snape. I had wanted to rip him limb from limb. 'How everyone else felt at the time,' I say dismissively. 'I wanted to kill Snape.'

'So anger and vengeance,' says Sayer. 'And when your godfather died?'

'The same.'

'We could say, then, that loss drives you to action. But what about when you don't have a conduit through which you can direct your anger? There are times when there isn't a villain to speak of.'

'So you're here to support the Ministry party line,' I say. This is what I was expecting. The Ministry have set Sayer on me to reinforce their bungled conclusion that Luna died by accident.

'What makes you say that?' says Sayer.

'You're suggesting that Voldemort –' I had expected Sayer to be one of those wizards who flinches when they hear Voldemort's name, and I am satisfied to see that I am right, 'and Snape were responsible for Sirius and Dumbledore's deaths, which made me want to kill them. But this time, with my Luna, there's nobody to blame.'

Sayer takes a moment to gather his thoughts. 'Actually, I wasn't referring to your wife, Harry. Can you not think of a time when you lost someone but couldn't take it out on the person who was to blame?' I shake my head; everyone I've known who died before their time was killed by Voldemort, or one of his Death Eaters.

Sayer pauses, waiting for me to construct an answer to his question. 'Loss doesn't necessarily result from death,' he adds. The grandfather clock quietly chimes nine times.

The answer he is looking for suddenly dawns on me. Ginny. He means Ginny. 'She's off limits,' I say.

I follow Sayer's gaze and realise that my hands are gripping the edge of the sofa. I immediately let go and lean back.

'If this is going to work,' he says, 'we need to be as open with each other as possible.'

'She's off limits,' I repeat.

Sayer takes off his glasses and rubs the lenses on his robes. When he has planted them back at the end of his nose, he says, 'After the huge losses to you personally at the Battle of Hogwarts, you still took action, didn't you?'

I shrug. 'It's normal for wizards to travel the world when they come of age.'

'Of course,' says William, smiling sympathetically. 'Many were surprised, though, that you returned to Godric's Hollow. Why was that?'

'England's our home,' I say. 'We had a brilliant time travelling, but we got homesick.'

'You misunderstand me, Harry. Naturally you'd come back to England, but of all the places you could have lived, why Godric's Hollow?'

'The Potters have lived in Godric's Hollow for centuries; before they were even called Potter. Where else would I go?'

'But none of your ancestors experienced the kind of loss you had there. I'm sure they wouldn't have begrudged you finding a new place to settle down.'

'When we spoke at King's Cross,' I say, and my mind is far away, fixed on the clean, ethereal platform hall, 'Dumbledore made me realise how important it is to stay true to your family. Even if they're dead.'

I look up and spot a momentary look of surprise pass Sayer's face. I realise what I have said. Other than Ron and Hermione, I have never so much as mentioned to anyone, not even Luna, the conversation with Dumbledore at King's Cross. The potential danger of these sessions dawn on me with an unwelcome thrill. I must be more careful about what I say, or even do. My Occlumency, feeble as it is, will be my friend.

'We've had our hour,' I say, rising to my feet.

Sayer glances at the ticking grandfather clock. 'I'd like to set you some … homework, if you'll allow me.'

'I was never good at handing homework in,' I say.

Sayer smiles and, for the first time, it is genuine. 'Luckily, this one is easy. If you could speak to your wife one last time, what would you say?'

I give Sayer one last glance and consider him. Was Sayer hinting at the fact that he knew about my 'one last' conversation with Dumbledore? Surely this 'homework' is simply a happy coincidence, unless he had had performed some kind of undetectable Legilimency? No, I would have felt it. Tearing my eyes away from him, I leave the office, turn right down the hall and Disapparate.

* * *

The sun hangs low in the sky as my feet carry me down the sleepy streets of Godric's Hollow. My mind is still whirring from the conversation with Healer Sayer earlier that day. Not for the first time, I wish that I have access to a Pensieve so I can relive the experience and examine Sayer more closely. If, as I suspect, he is reporting back to Bogand and the Ministry, it will not do for me to lose my concentration in that room ever again.

But I must focus on the task at hand. Bogand wants me distracted. If I am off my game, then it will make it easier for Neville to find her killer before I do. As I round the corner that leads to my home, I breathe in and out, concentrating on clearing my mind. A sense of calm descends on me, and I am ready.

Our home for the past eight years is little more than rubble. The entire top floor is gone; only the back wall still stands and the brickwork is charred as though by dragon fire. The front garden, Luna's pride and joy, is covered in a layer of grey debris; the sanctuary for Blibbering Humdingers lies on its side like some casualty of war. The damage is worse, far worse, than I had imagined.

I start with the basics. _'Priori Incantato!'_ I say. Instead of the swift flick required by the traditional spell, I draw a circle with my wand. The spell then knows to apply itself to the general area rather than another's wand.

Thick, grey clouds of smoke begin to appear in different parts of the garden: Detection Charms, Muggle-Repelling Charms, and Anti-Disapparition Jinxes. All of them are clearly ghosts of the lacklustre Auror investigation. The Auror spells continue to appear and disappear in different parts of the grounds, none a surprise. Then a swirling mass of grey flames of abnormal size writhes itself around the garden, obscuring the remains of the cottage from view. The fire mutates into a pack of beasts: dragons, Hippogriffs and bears among them. I watch their dance and try not to imagine my Luna burning in their midst.

The ghostly flames die and a wisp of magic pulsates from my left and covers the ruins. The way it spreads out and thins suggests it is a _Homenum Revelio_ that did not bear any fruit. I feel myself frown: the killer using that spell makes perfect sense, but why on earth would it not reveal Luna inside?

I am distracted from my thoughts by a ghostly man sprouting from the spot the _Homenum Revelio_ was cast from. My frown deepens: the _Priori Incantatem_ only reveals people if they are victim to an Unforgivable curse. As the man is not writhing in pain or lying dead, it must be the Imperius Curse. The man is holding a package in his arms with the kind of delicateness usually reserved for parents holding their new-born babies. I take a few steps towards the apparition and look more closely at the package. I have seen this before …

As the man slowly makes his way to the remains of the cottage, I wrack my brains. But the more I try and recall the memory, the more it alludes me.

The man disappears and no more ghostly echoes of spells past present themselves. ' _Deletrius!'_

I walk over to where the ghostly man appeared from. A sudden jab of pain courses up my leg. 'Fuck!' I cry. I glare down at the source: it is a charred chunk of plastic.

I bend down and examine it: it is a rectangular box that vaguely resembles a Muggle stapler; only it has what looks like an antenna coming out of the top. Suddenly, the memory I have been groping for comes to me. It was one of my first missions: Bolgrund, a goblin extremist hell-bent on murdering Shacklebolt, was rumoured to be hiding out in the Middle East. I had tracked him down deep in the Saudi desert and was on the verge of taking him down when he used an explosion to distract me and escape. He had left behind a detonator identical to the one I hold in my hand.

'C4,' I mutter.

The C4 detonator in my hand completely contradicts the evidence of Fiendfyre provided by the _Priori Incantatem._ Why on earth would Luna's killer force someone to detonate C4 _and_ cast Fiendfyre?

'Harry?'

I spin around, ready to curse the intruder, but stop in my tracks when I see it is Mr Weasley. His stroke last year has taken its toll: he stoops slightly over a cane, his hair is more bald than Weasley red and his kind smile is layered with weighty sadness. I go over to him and shake his cane-less hand.

'It's good to see you, Arthur,' I say.

'I thought I might find you here,' he says, giving me a long look.

'Are you ok?' I ask.

'Quite alright, thank you. I wanted to see how you were, Harry.'

'Fine,' I say. 'You didn't have to inconvenience yourself by coming all the way here. If you'd have sent a Patronus message, I'd have come to you.'

Mr Weasley smiles fondly and places a hand on my shoulder in that fatherly way of his. 'It doesn't always have to be you checking in on me, as I keep telling you. Bill dropped by a couple of days ago and said he offered you a place at the Burrow.'

'It's ok, Arthur,' I say, glancing over my shoulder at the ruins, 'I've rented a flat.'

'Sometimes,' says Mr Weasley carefully, 'when everything in our lives is upside down, having one thing that's stable and constant makes all the difference.'

'What was your constant?' I ask. I have always wondered how Mr Weasley handled the cruel destruction of his family. Where Ron turned to drink and isolation, Mr Weasley had been remarkably stoic.

Arthur turns his back to me and gazes out at the ruins. Only the gentle hooting of a nearby owl disturbs the silence.

'Despite … everything … I still have six wonderful sons –' I realise with a jolt that he has counted me among that number, 'even if some of them have been led astray.'

I wonder if that is a reference to Ron, or George … or me. I go and stand beside him so we are both looking at the place I once called home.

'I know that the last thing you want to do is talk about it,' says Mr Weasley heavily, 'but if, or when, you do, I hope you come to the Burrow. There … aren't many others who'll understand what you're going through.'

'How … do you live without her?'

Mr Weasley's shoulders seem to hunch further. 'I can't pretend it doesn't hurt every day, and it certainly doesn't get easier with time. That's the myth people will tell you. The truth is, Molly would never have forgiven me if I wasn't strong for the family. She'd have wanted me to be there for the grandchildren.

'Our own parents died during the first war, Harry. They'd dreamed of meeting their grandchildren, but never got that chance. Molly and I … well, we didn't want history to repeat itself. This may not have been the way we hoped things would turn out, but you have to live the reality you're dealt.'

I can practically hear Dumbledore's voice from years past: _it does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live._

'What if you don't have children to be strong for?' I say, barely above whisper.

Mr Weasley does something I can't remember him ever doing: he hugs me. I am so taken aback by it that I do not pull away. It is gruff and brief, but no less full of love than Mrs Weasley's long, warm ones had been.

'You have Teddy,' says Mr Weasley, after he pulls away.

'Yeah …'

'I remember the night Remus decided to make you godfather like it was yesterday. Said he'd come to Grimmauld Place and offered to help you, but you turned him away. Apparently you'd accused him of abandoning Teddy for a chance at glory. "He'll be the ideal godfather, he's got the instincts for parenthood" I think he said …

'I've often thought about that conversation, you know. It only occurred to me after the battle that Remus was acknowledging that he wouldn't get to be a father to Teddy. And the irony of it all is that if he'd really listened to what you'd said, he'd be here now.'

Mr Weasley peers over his glasses me and fixes me with a pointed look. The message behind the words speak louder than the words themselves.

'Remember that there's always room for you at the Burrow, Harry.'

His expression softens a little and he continues to look at me for long moments, as though he would never see me again.

'You're far too young to have lost so much.'

And with that, Mr Weasley Disapparates.


	5. Hunting Death

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on the characters and world created by JK Rowling. Anything you do not recognise is my own creation. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

– CHAPTER FIVE –

 _ **Hunting Death**_

* * *

Neville slowly peeled his eyes open. Alice's tiny chest rose and fell rhythmically against his; she was still fast asleep. He would give anything to stay at home with her: to talk to her, to laugh with her, to protect her. Things any ordinary father should do. But he was no ordinary father.

Reluctantly, he untangled himself from her and sat on the side of the bed, rubbing his eyes. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table. Almost noon. Almost late.

'Wake up our sleeping princess, will you, Flamey?' said Neville, his voice hoarse. With one swish of its wings, the toy dragon lifted itself from the covers and began nuzzling its head against Alice's cheek.

Neville got up and performed his morning ritual in record time: shower, shave, teeth, robes, breakfast for two. He was peering at the morning's _Daily Prophet_ over his cereal when Alice finally shuffled into the kitchen.

Neville smiled at his bleary-eyed daughter. 'Morning, sleepy-head. Come and grab your breakfast.'

'I thought you were on holiday?' said Alice sulkily. Neville grabbed her and helped her onto the high kitchen stool.

'It was a day-long holiday, honey. Eat up quick: Auntie Andromeda's expecting us any minute now.'

Alice scowled at her breakfast. 'No-one else's dad works as much as you ...'

He stroked her hair reassuringly and said, 'One day, you'll understand why daddy works so much. Are you looking forward to going to the zoo today?'

Alice brightened up. 'Oh, yes! Teddy said we're going to see real dragons! And Victoire said there's a sphinx! Is it true Uncle Harry once battled one?'

Neville smiled. 'Well, he didn't technically battle the sphinx. He's bested his fair share of dragons, though.'

'Wow ...'

'C'mon, missy, let's get you off to Grimmauld Place.'

He summoned his car keys and followed Alice out of the kitchen, through the narrow corridor and into the hall. All along the corridor were small, unmoving portraits of those he refused to forget: his parents, his grandmother, Hannah, and now Luna. Others might feel uncomfortable walking down this corridor, but he did not care. If he did not remember his loved ones, who would?

The door opened on to a paved drive. Opposite their semi-detached home was a hall of residence from the local university. After nearly a decade with the Unit, he had become far too paranoid to live in a wizarding area. Perhaps when he retired ...

He shielded his eyes from the sun and glanced up and down the small road. None of the neighbours were around; judging from the number of empty drives, they had decided to make use of the sunshine.

Neville unlocked his car and got in on the driver's side, while Alice jumped into the passenger seat. With a sad smile, he remembered the first time he had devised the Apparition system around the house.

' _I really don't understand why we need all these precautions,' said Hannah. 'Most of the Death Eaters are locked up in Azkaban now. I'm sure we can take off the Anti-Apparition wards at least.'_

' _Yes,_ most _of them are in Azkaban. Once I'm sure_ all _of them are locked up, I'll have Bill bring the wards down.' Neville smiled. 'Until then, this is our only Apparition point. Constant vigilance!'_

' _And I thought Professor Moody was paranoid …'_

' _Great man, Mad-Eye; best Auror the Ministry's ever seen.'_

' _Maybe so, but he didn't have a family, Neville.' She placed a protective hand on her bulging stomach. 'We can't raise a child like this.'_

 _He placed his hand on top of hers. 'I know, darling, I know.'_

'What's wrong, daddy?' said Alice, snapping him out of his reverie.

'Nothing, honey. Have you got everything?'

'Yep!'

When he was sure the car was secure and no Muggles were watching, he placed the keys in the glove compartment, took Alice's hand and Disapparated.

A split second later, they appeared on the top step of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. Almost subconsciously, Neville scanned the road for any suspicious activity, as well as possible avenues of escape if wizarding transportation was cut off.

'You do realise that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named isn't two doors down.'

Neville spun around, hand instinctively going to his wand. But it was only Andromeda, haughty and handsome as ever. Her resemblance to the woman who had ruined his life never failed to startle him.

'You do realise he's not going to rise from the dead and kill you for using his name, don't you?' he retorted.

'Indeed,' she said. 'How are you, Neville, dear?'

'I'm as well as can be before a twelve hour shift.'

Andromeda smiled. 'I can imagine,' she said, though they both knew that, as a Black, she had never worked a day in her life. She shifted her heavy-lidded eyes down to Alice. 'Alice, dear, Theodore is waiting for you in the drawing room.'

'Thank you for having me, Aunt Andromeda.'

Andromeda smiled and placed her hand on Alice's head. 'It's an absolute pleasure, dear girl.'

With that, Alice tip-toed past Mrs Black's portrait and bounded up the stairs.

'Before you go,' said Andromeda, 'I must confess I'm worried about Harry.'

Neville shot her his best reassuring smile. 'He's deep in mourning; you know how he loved her.'

'Yes, but he has not so much as written to Theodore in over three weeks. It strikes me as rather odd considering how seriously he takes his duties as godfather.'

'Just give him time,' said Neville, 'I'm sure he'll come round. Thanks so much for looking after Alice today. I'll pick her up as soon as possible.'

'There's no hurry, she's a joy.'

After bidding Andromeda good bye, Neville turned around and Disapparated.

He appeared in the Atrium, beside the refurbished Fountain of Magical Brethren. He did his daily ritual of tossing a Sickle into its depths before moving on his way.

One of the only upsides of the dreaded noon-to-midnight shift was the fact that he missed the rush of nine-to-five workers. The Atrium was practically empty: the only sounds were the trickle of water from the Fountain and the echoing thud of his shoes against the varnished floor. Even the security stand was empty; Eric, the watchwizard, had probably gone on his lunch break.

Neville passed beyond the golden gates briskly, choosing, as always, the lift second to the left. Hardly anybody used that lift. In any case, he would only be going up four floors.

'Level Four: Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures,' said the cool, female voice as the lift lurched to a halt.

On instinct, Neville cast a Bubble-Head Charm. On the best of days, the Department stunk of excrement; on the worst ... Neville shuddered. He had asked Bogand for a transfer, but the Head had refused for 'security reasons'. Following the war, Shacklebolt had decreed that all Ministry employees would, at least once a decade, transfer to another department for six months. This was meant to foster cross-departmental learning and prevent stagnation. Unfortunately for Neville, Unspeakables were not exempt and he was forced to pretend to work with dragons.

Neville briskly marched to his office. On either side of the wide, bright corridor were huge, magically reinforced cages. They housed everything from tiny doxies to gargantuan erumpets. A squat wizard with a pinched face was hurrying the other way, looking extremely worried.

'Everything alright, Mockridge?' said Neville.

'Please tell me you've seen a group of Nifflers come this way.'

''Fraid not.'

'Damn, Scamander's gonna kill me ...'

Finally, Neville came to the door to his 'office'. There was no handle, only a small groove. He put the tip of his wand into it and placed his other hand beside it. A moment, then a script etched itself into the wood:

 _Enter, Neville Longbottom._

The door, however, did not lead him to the small shabby office that anybody else would have been met with. Instead, it was a spacious room carved out of gleaming white marble. Light streamed in from a false window and danced across everything, from the glass cabinets to the polished mahogany desk.

The centrepiece of the room was on the far side of the wall. Guarding the two corners were two magnificent Nundu statues at least twice Neville's height. They were solid marble. Between them, they supported a glittering, silvery map of the world made of argo. Though there were no longer any reliable texts on the mysterious, exhausted substance, Neville suspected it was the same material contained in Pensieves.

The map was littered with hundreds of dots: most were minuscule and a dull grey; some were the size of large city provinces and flashed orange intermittently; and one, which completely obliterated Wales, was an angry red. Neville remembered, with a smile, his induction to this office.

' _What's that?' said Neville, awe-struck._

' _That,' said Bogand, his self-satisfied smirk wider than Neville had ever seen it, 'is the culmination of all our work. All those hours you and the other analysts put into research and lead-chasing is represented in Modric's Map.'_

' _Who's Modric?' asked Neville, tentatively closing in on the map._

' _Modric is the genius who created this. You may know of his other invention, the Pensieve. Well, that was very much a by-product of this project of his. Of course –' Bogand's tone became derisive, 'his name isn't mentioned anywhere in the history books.'_

' _So … this is connected to The Knowledge?' said Neville. He placed a palm on stomach of one of the Nundus. It sent a cold shiver down his spine; partly due to the temperature of the marble, partly because of the tinge of fear he felt, even from a replica._

' _Very good,' said Bogand, 'it took Potter a little longer to work that one out.'_

 _Harry had been promoted a year before him. They had come up together: both started off as little more than paper pushers, much to Harry's chagrin. All they did was background checks and, if they were lucky, they got to plant tracking charms. As they rose through the ranks, they began doing next-of-kin interrogations and scene investigation. Everything they did went in to a cauldron-like Pensieve in the Unit foyer known as 'The Knowledge'. They were never told where the memories went, or how they were used: secrecy existed not only between the Unit and outsiders, but also between the rungs of the ladder._

 _Bogand fixed him with a steely stare. He was expecting something._

' _So,' said Neville, filling the silence, 'my job is to collate all the information and use it to neutralise the target?'_

' _Precisely,' said Bogand. 'This is the most important job the Unit has. You report directly to me. Your only other point of contact is Potter. Red targets are an immediate priority. You'll work everything else out on your own.'_

 _Neville sighed. Bogand loved to play his games. 'Do I at least get to know who else is working in the Unit now I'm a Director?'_

 _The only answer Neville got was a smirk before he was left alone in the office he had always dreamed of occupying._

Neville recalled his first ever target. It had taken him three sleepless months to track the man down, deep in the Amazon Rainforest, only to find that he was a retired Director employed by the Unit to teach 'fresh meat' everything from blood analysis to protecting politicians. His spontaneous four-month absence from home had not gone down well with Hannah.

Neville glared at his target. It was the biggest, angriest dot he had yet seen; it was throbbing so violently that Neville thought it might explode.

Despite his assurances to Bogand, this one _was_ personal. Luna … if it weren't for her, he would have dismissed his last year at Hogwarts as a fluke: after all, how could Neville Longbottom, the boy with no friends and barely any magic, ever hope to work for the Department of Mysteries?

A year out of Hogwarts, while visiting the Potters in Cuba, he had told Luna of his strange dreams about the Department, about the odd pull he had felt towards the place since the incident at the end of his fifth year. Anybody else would have told him it was silly, or that he was being a fantasist. But not Luna. She just cocked her head to one side and said, 'They want you to work there.' He had not asked who 'They' were. He had just followed his gut and applied. And on the way to the interview, he crashed straight into the love of his life.

Yes, Luna was special.

Neville drew his wand and tapped the large red dot. The Nundu statue closest to him unhinged its great jaw and spoke in a tinny monotone. It was spelled, Neville guessed, to protect the identity of the speakers.

'Target 201 murdered Victim 345 on 26th July 2007 at Victim 345's home in Godric's Hollow. Ministry investigation concludes that Victim 345 was attempting to create a spell that renders Wrackspurts visible. What Victim 345 allegedly stumbled across was an explosive variant of Fiendfyre. However, the Unit's field investigation has concluded that the Fiendfyre traces were applied retroactively. The cause of death, confirmed by Obliviated Muggle experts, was the Muggle explosive known as C4. Due to the careful warding around Victim 345's residence, the Unit's investigation points to Target 201 being a Muggle-born witch or wizard rather than a Muggle.

'Victim 345 had no discernible enemies. However, the husband of Victim 345 has 67 known enemies worldwide. After a series of interviews, the Unit believes that the primary suspect occasionally frequents Knockturn Alley. Little is known about this person or creature; indeed, there is a possibility that it is an urban myth. If it does exist, it is possible that the primary target plans to steal the objects known as 'the Deathly Hallows' from Victim 345's husband. There is a likelihood that, by killing Victim 345's husband, the primary suspect would be able to claim ownership over the object known as "the Wand of Destiny". The true target of the attack was absent from his home, and Victim 345 was collateral damage. We have yet to find conclusive evidence to support this theory.

'Supplied is a copy of the full Ministry investigation, the full Unit investigation, and the case files on all 67 potential suspects.'

Neville frowned. Never had he been given so little information on the primary suspect. At this point, he did not even know this primary suspect was real! Somebody was trying to steal the Hallows ... well, that was nothing new. Even after their best efforts planting rumours that somebody had already won the Elder Wand from Harry, he was constantly under threat.

 _Victim 345 was collateral damage ..._

Neville took a breath and buried his anger with Occlumency. He needed to approach this like he usually would: it would not do for Bogand to take him off the case. The first steps were clear enough: after reading the reports, he needed to confirm the primary suspect. There was no point spending resources chasing a dead end.

Neville spent the next few hours poring over every single case file. None of them fit the profile; none of them would have been able to recognise a Muggle explosive, let alone acquire and set it off. Even if they had put a Muggle expert under the Imperius Curse, every single potential suspect had one thing in common: they would rather die than accept that Muggle methods of killing were more effective than wizarding ones. Frustrated that he did not have a primary suspect, Neville leafed through the investigations, keeping an eye out for clues or inconsistencies. But he found nothing.

Neville decided to do the same thing he did every time there was no solid primary suspect. He strode over to the glass cupboard next to the false window. There were narrowly-spaced shelves filled to breaking point with row upon row of potion vials. And Neville had brewed every last one. If only Snape could see him now. He picked out Veritaserum, Polyjuice and Draught of the Living Death. Next, he went to his desk and opened the drawer; it was far deeper than the outside dimensions suggested. He rummaged around and produced a grey sock.

Knockturn Alley was a hot-bed of information and, as such, Neville had a permanent Portkey to the cellar of the most popular Alley tavern, Merlin's Beard. For the past few years, he had been disguising himself as the bartender, a surly man named Hans Moraru. It was what the Unit called a 'complete' disguise: Neville had studied Hans' background and mannerisms so carefully that he could fool the man's mother.

'Knockturn,' said Neville, and he felt a tug at his navel.

The familiar smell of decaying flesh and stale alcohol met Neville's nose as soon as he landed. The only light in the draughty cellar came from a thin sliver at the top of a flight of stairs. Neville slid between the cobweb-covered barrels of Firewhiskey and noiselessly climbed the stairs.

Oddly, there were muffled voices coming from the bar on the other side of the stone door. Usually, the only customers who frequented the tavern at this hour were those who did not wish to be overheard.

Neville reached out to his Imperius link with the bartender. But instead of feeling that empowering sense of satisfaction that came from controlling another man, there was ... nothing. Hans, it seemed, was not in the vicinity. Neville frowned – there were no staff at the tavern; without Hans around, the place should be closed.

Neville, now very much on alert, Disillusioned himself before casting strong Notice-Me-Not and Silencing charms on the door. Slowly, he inched the it open until there was a gap just about wide enough for him to slip through. What he saw stunned him.

Merlin's Beard, once an establishment proud of its disdain for wizarding law, was teeming with Aurors and other Ministry of Magic personnel. Two Aurors were questioning a churlish vampire and a distressed hag; both, Neville knew, were regulars. More Aurors formed a huddle around something in the far corner of the room. Experts from Magical Transportation and Magical Catastrophes were canvassing the pub, but their tetchy spell-work told him that they were stumped.

'How the hell did he just vanish from existence?' muttered a dumpy witch with fly-away hair.

Neville tip-toed past the woman, crept up towards the huddled group of Aurors and looked over their shoulders. What he saw answered why his long-term Imperius had been cancelled. Staring up at the ceiling with glassy, unseeing eyes was Hans Moraru. Beside him were two hags: clear Avada Kedavra cases. But what was odd was the fourth body. It was a squat man he recognised as Mundungus Fletcher, the Alley informant. His body looked misshapen, as if he were a jigsaw puzzle that had hastily been put together. His tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth, but it was very faintly purple. Neville suspected an Evisceration Hex, but he had never seen one that only tinged the tongue purple. Either he was wrong about the hex, or he was dealing with someone more dangerous than Bellatrix Lestrange. The Ministry report would tell him which one.

With some effort, Neville pulled himself away from the bodies. He had to survey the scene before the Ministry workers contaminated it further. He scoured the area for signs of the perpetrator. Every wizard, no matter how good, leaves traces. That was what the retired Director had told him. Not for the first time, he wished that the Unit was sanctioned by the Minister so he could conduct his sweep in peace. As it was, he was forced to use silent, undetectable magic: a serious cripple considering most detection work produced visible spells. It was also rather annoying having to keep an eye out for bustling Ministry wizards. It would not do for them to crash straight into him.

After a few minutes of searching, he found it. On the floor, practically in the dead centre of the room mixed in with the glass and filth, was a single hair. It was almost invisible to the naked eye. Neville placed a Notice-Me-Not charm on it, just in case, and picked it up. It did not, as he had hoped, belong to human, or indeed any creature that could use magic. Its toughness, as well as the faint golden line running its length, gave it away as an Acromantula hair. It was in pristine condition; it had very recently been dropped. What on earth was an Acromantula hair doing in the pub?

He pocketed it and made for the interrogation, narrowly avoiding a spell from one of the Ministry wizards.

'Ve haff told you Ministry rats all ve know,' spat the vampire Neville knew as Salwin, his expression murderous.

'You understand the position you're in, vampire?' said the taller Auror. 'As an unregistered foreign dark creature, the Ministry of Magic has the right to deport you to any country of its choosing. Have you heard those rumours about the Ugandan Ministry, Bolton?'

'I hear any vampire they find is sentenced to a good staking.'

Neville rolled his eyes. Why they always used rookies for interrogations he would never understand. Just because a task did not involve magic did not mean anybody could do it. If only the Aurors would leave, he could conduct a proper interrogation. Clearly it was the hag who had the information, not Salwin. She was silently rocking in her chair, her eyes wide with terror, as though she was on the verge of being attacked.

Neville uncorked his vial of Veritaserum. He would have to execute this perfectly, or risk being made. He ordered the battered table next to the Aurors to collapse and, in the distraction, banished three drops of Veritaserum into the open mouth of the distracted hag.

'Bloody place is on its last legs,' said the tall Auror. He turned back to Salwin, whose narrow eyes were fixed on Neville. 'Right, last chance. Tell us what you know about the attack.'

Salwin merely folded his thin arms, but the hag spoke up. 'Everybody knows who did it,' she said in a monotone. Salwin's attention was torn from Neville and drawn instead to the hag. And Neville saw an expression he had never seen on a vampire: fear.

'Who did it?' urged Bolton.

'It floats here and there, they say. The only sign of It is a sudden draught, or the rustling of the leaves. And if It marks you, then you'll surely be killed.'

'If _what_ marks you? Speak its name, hag.'

'It has no name.'

'What do you mean "it has no name"?' snapped the tall Auror. 'Give me a description, at least.'

'They say It has no body … all It is is a voice. If you've been marked, you hear Its voice, your wand shatters, and then you're no more.'

'For crying out loud, give us a name!'

'They call It Death.'

The two Aurors shared an exasperated look: as far as they were concerned, the interrogation was over.

But Neville knew better. He retreated into an empty corner of the pub to think.

Death ... it was an old fear, of course. His grandmother used to say to him: 'Keep out of Knockturn Alley or Death will come and get you!' It was a myth told to children to stop them falling through the cracks of society. The steady number of unaccounted disappearances in Knockturn Alley fed the myth, but they were usually nobodies; friendless, alcoholic warlocks and the like. But Mundungus Fletcher, for all his faults, was a protected Ministry informant and former Order of the Phoenix member.

The biggest problem of all was that Neville had a hunch. He had a hunch that this Death character, the Mundungus Fletcher killing and Luna's murder were all linked. And his hunches were almost never wrong.

He focused on what the hag had told them about Death: ' _If you've been marked, you hear Its voice, your wand shatters, and then you're no more.'_ Neville shuddered; to harm another wizard's wand was an unspeakable act. It was revolting, unheard of. Even the Ministry saved it for the very worst offenders in Azkaban, like poor Hagrid, who they thought had killed an innocent child.

But the Ministry physically snapped the wands. No spell existed that could harm another's wand; it was too resistant to magic. Not that any wand would obey an order to destroy one of its own. Then a horrifying thought came to him. He did know of a wand that could affect another's. Had Harry not repaired his wand with the Elder Wand? And, logically, if the Elder Wand could repair other wands, it could destroy them, too.

' _There is a likelihood that, by killing Victim 345's husband, the primary suspect would be able to claim ownership over the object known as "the Wand of Destiny".'_

Neville wrung his hands absently. He considered, for a moment, a scenario where this Death figure wanted to win the Elder Wand from Harry. The target would then need to break into Hogwarts, of all places, to get it. It was practically impossible; the wards would immediately sense the ill intent and expel the perpetrator.

Furthermore, the Stone was safe; the target did not have it. He knew that without a shadow of a doubt. He, or It, would need to break into the Unit to acquire it. Hell, they would have to know the Unit existed to even begin to think about breaking in. And even then, how could the target possibly know the Unit had the Stone? Not even Harry knew; Bogand had cited conflict of interest.

Neville froze. Acromantula hair. Of course. The target had tried to find the Resurrection Stone in the Forbidden Forest. But how? The only living people who roughly knew where Harry had dropped the Stone were he, Ron, Hermione, Harry and Bogand. And whoever Bogand sent to retrieve it. There it was; the possibility for the secret to have leaked. Naturally Bogand trusted his hand-picked few, but could Neville? After all, he had never met any of them.

Did the target work in the Unit?

It was a frightening thought, and one he could not dismiss. Not now he knew the target had come across an Acromantula: the only known Acromantula lair in Europe was at Hogwarts. Selling the hairs Hagrid collected was a profitable revenue stream for the school.

Neville collected his thoughts. Even if the primary target had not murdered Luna, he needed to go to Hogwarts immediately and confirm the status of the Elder Wand. The next stop would be the Unit, where he would check up on the Stone, and finally he would make sure Harry still had the Cloak. If any were missing, Neville would inform Bogand that his primary suspect was indeed Target 201.


	6. The Muggle

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on the characters and world created by JK Rowling. Anything you do not recognise is my own creation. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

– CHAPTER SIX –

 _ **The Muggle**_

* * *

'How do you feel about death?'

I run my fingers along the edge of Fabian's watch. Each miniscule marking has been tortuously carved by hand. I can't help but admire the craftsmanship; a wizard somewhere had spent countless hours poring over this watch. They put their life and soul into it, and the result is clear for all to see. How lucky they are. After all, what do I have to show for all my time hidden deep in the Department of Mysteries?

'You seem distracted,' says Sayer. He leans back in his chair; dappled sunlight reflects off his glasses, masking his eyes.

'You must have been top of your fucking class,' I say.

I consider, for the hundredth time, what would happen if I just refuse to come to these pointless sessions. Bogand would have me thrown out of the Unit, of course, but that is no big sacrifice. The press would brand me an escaped mental patient, so nothing new there. What I fear, though, is Bogand sending an Obliviator to get me. And I need my Unit memories if I'm to find my Luna's killer.

'Would you like to share?' says Sayer, fixing me with that gormless smile of his. He crosses his legs and ignores the fact that I am drumming the arm of the sofa with my free hand. I had hoped it would annoy him.

'I was thinking of whether getting out of here was worth losing my career over.'

Sayer just smiles his soothing smile. I drum harder. 'Let's talk about that, then.'

'What's there to talk about? This is a waste of time – you know it, and I know it.'

'I don't feel that way.'

'I have my own friends to talk to about my problems.'

'Do you?' he asks, as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. I drum harder still, so that the gentle ticking of the old grandfather clock is drowned out.

'Of course I bloody do.' I wonder how it is that Sayer manages to get under my skin. Perhaps it's something he learned in Healer training.

'When is the last time you shared a problem with somebody?'

'Just –' I begin, but I struggle to finish the sentence. Just last week? Last month? Last year? If I am honest with myself, the last problem I shared was when I was at school, telling Ron and Hermione about the Horcruxes. I realise that I have stopped drumming.

'Do you feel you cannot trust people?'

I glance back at my watch. Half an hour to go.

'I don't think I can,' I whisper. If I am going to be stuck here for another half hour, I might as well have some fun.

'Go on,' says Sayer, his smile widening.

'I guess I was lied to and betrayed by adults all the time as a child,' I say, in my sincerest voice. 'I trusted Dumbledore, the closest thing I had to a grandfather, and he lied time and time again. It must …' I pause, for it is becoming too much. 'It must be because of my upbringing. The Dursleys taught me that revealing my innermost thoughts and feelings led to punishment, and I still carry that with me.'

I cannot hold in my laughter any longer. My cheeks feel strange; I have forgotten how to smile. Sayer betrays a flicker of annoyance, but the stupid smile soon returns. I notice, though, a slight crease between his eyebrows. I take it as a sign of victory.

'Perhaps we should try a different technique,' he says.

'Knock yourself out,' I say, and return to my watch. Twenty-seven minutes.

Sayer swivels away from me in his chair, and reaches down to open a cabinet by his feet. With some effort, he retrieves a very familiar object from it. It is a shallow stone basin marked with various runes: a Pensieve. Sayer handles it as though it were an infant and carefully places it on his desk.

'How did you get your hands on one of those?' I say sharply.

Sayer brushes stray hairs from his face before answering. 'It was a donation from a very wealthy family. I assured the owner that it would do a lot of good.'

'I was under the impression that there were only three left in the country.'

Sayer considers me for moment. 'The family in question lives in France. But that is irr –'

'So you were one of the ones who fled, then.'

I try not to sound accusatory. After all, Sayer strikes me as a Muggle-born, and the logical thing to do when faced with a Voldemort-led England would be to flee. But perhaps I am not successful: the crease between Sayer's eyebrows deepens.

'I've lived in France since I was a child; I only recently came back. Now let's get back on point –'

'If you think I'm giving you a memory, then you really haven't learnt much about me.'

'Of course not,' says Sayer. He places his wand at his temple and extracts a silvery memory. In one smooth movement, he places it in the cloudy mist of the Pensieve, never quite liquid or gas.

I am curious enough now that I leave the comfort of the leather sofa and approach the desk. Why would Sayer want me to see one _his_ memories?

'After you,' says Sayer. I can see his pale blue eyes now and they are wider than usual: with excitement, perhaps, or is it just anticipation?

I glance down at my watch again. Twenty-five minutes. I would rather spend them watching a memory than endure Sayer's failed attempts at getting me to break down. I put my watch in my pocket, take a deep breath and plunge my head into the Pensieve's silvery depths.

My feet leave the floor and I plummet through whirling darkness. And then, quite suddenly, I find myself in a very familiar bedroom. The high, arched windows and magnificent four-poster bed give it an air of faded grandeur. The walls are adorned with wizards in bright orange robes hitting Bludgers, catching snitches and scoring goals, except above the bed. Here, there is a gold-framed portrait of a mousy woman with bubble-gum pink hair and a haggard man who looks delighted to find himself in her company. This is Teddy's room.

Teddy, sporting his favourite look of messy black hair and brilliant green eyes, is sitting on the edge of his bed, his legs dangling off the edge. He is biting his nails, a sure sign that he is uncomfortable. The source is Sayer, who is seated not far from Teddy, and is smiling.

'What're you –' I begin.

'Just watch,' says the real Sayer.

'Theodore,' says memory-Sayer, 'I'm going to ask you a few questions, if that's alright with you.'

Teddy stops biting his nails and his hair turns flame red. 'Are you from the Ministry?'

I feel a fierce sense of pride at this. It is good to feel.

'No,' says Sayer, 'not from the Ministry. I'm a Healer, actually. I don't know if you know this, but I've been helping Harry out recently.'

Teddy folds his arms and, slowly, his hair turns black once more. 'Uncle Harry's fine.'

'I know he is, he just wants me to ask you a few questions.'

'So … Uncle Harry sent you?' says Teddy, cocking his head to one side.

'Of course.'

My pride at Teddy turns to anger. How dare Sayer use me to manipulate my godson! What right does he have to barge into Grimmauld Place and interrogate Teddy? I had told Sayer in a previous session the lengths I go to to keep Teddy out of the papers, and _this_ is how he uses that information?

'Do you love your godfather?' asks Sayer, grabbing my attention.

Teddy sits up straight, and his eyes are wide. 'Yes! He's my favourite Uncle!'

'What do you love about him?'

'He lets me do whatever I like, and he buys me all this cool stuff. Like for my last birthday, he got me the Firebolt Two; all my friends are so jealous, and now I'm sure to be on the Gryffindor team in my first year, just like he was!' Teddy barely draws breath before continuing. 'And he tells me all these cool stories about my parents: like my dad used to teach him, and used to be best friends with his dad, who was an Animagus, which is really cool! _I'm_ gonna try and be an Animagus, too, I bet I'm a lion! But Grandma says it's really hard and I'll have to wait years and years ...'

'That you will,' says Sayer, as though he has known Teddy his entire life. 'When was the last time you saw your Uncle Harry?'

Teddy deflates. His hair reverts to its natural sandy brown, and with that downcast expression, he resembles his mother when Remus had rebuffed her love.

'I haven't seen him in ages,' says Teddy quietly. 'Not since ... you know ...'

It is as though I have been slapped in the face. This, then, is the point of this exercise. Have I really not seen my godson since she was killed? Shit. I am just like Sirius. No, worse. Sirius risked his life and freedom to see me. Hell, he even stopped hunting Wormtail for me.

But surely it would not be long before I found her killer? I have set records in the Unit for finding sick fucks like the one that took her from me. Yes, I will spend another few weeks bringing her killer to justice, and then I'll be the godfather that boy deserves.

'Take me up,' I say.

'But we're not –'

'Take – me – up.'

Sayer is taken aback: I smell fear. I stare at him, daring him to refuse me. He adjusts his glasses, and the calm veneer returns. He takes me by the arm and tugs. In a moment, we are back in the asylum. He returns to his char, but I remain standing.

'How dare you!' I spit. 'You have no right to snoop around my life, manipulating the people that are important to me.'

I realise that I am pacing, and my breathing is heavy.

'Why are you so angry?' asks Sayer.

'You can try and stick your nose in my mind all you like, I don't care about that. But Teddy's completely off limits. If you _ever_ go near him without my permission again –'

'Why are you so protective of Theodore? Why is he so special?'

'He's my godson! Remus' son. He needs me – who else does he have, other than Dromeda? He needs to be protected –'

'From whom?'

'From the press, who would use him to get at me. From former Death Eaters who'd like nothing more than to take him from me, the same way I took their master.' I stop pacing and round on him. He is leaning forward, and is gazing intently at me. 'From –'

'From having to live in the cupboard under the stairs.'

That takes me by surprise. I find myself returning to the couch, careful not to take my eyes off Sayer, who betrays a flicker of triumph.

'I'm not meant to provide you with the answers, Harry, but on this occasion I'll make an exception. It's quite natural for you to see yourself in Theodore. You were both orphaned at a very young age. Your parents died to save you, as did his. You were raised by emotionally crippled relatives, as is he –'

'Dromeda is a fantastic carer –'

'– Who lost her only child and husband. In fact, I suggested therapy for her when I visited earlier this week. You and Theodore share a special bond, one which you should cherish.'

'I do.'

Sayer is quite agitated now. He absently fidgets with his wand as he speaks, which emits red sparks that are unseen by its owner. 'Do you? You've shown in these sessions dangerously nihilistic tendencies. You are so hell-bent on finding your wife's killer –'

'I'm not trying to find her killer.'

'Come on, Harry, I don't need to be a qualified Healer to know that you are. You are so consumed with the goal of finding her killer that you forget there are other things worth living for.'

A silence falls between us.

He is right to some extent, and I wonder what else he has guessed or inferred. This is the second time that I am forced to contemplate how dangerous these sessions are. I can't have him work everything out. I can't have him passing the information on to the Ministry and have them find her killer before I do.

And I will need to consider more effective ways of protecting Teddy. I need to be completely focused on her killer; I can't be worried about him as well. Once I get closure, he will be my priority again. I have work to do.

The couch squeaks as I get up. I am halfway to the door when Sayer calls after me.

'Harry, you shouldn't leave now, we're making good progress.'

I stop. I can see much of the office reflected in the golden doorknob.

'I know,' I say. And, without looking back, I walk out.

* * *

My new lover writhes before me, intoxicating, beautiful. I can see myself in her. Where she is vibrant and alluring, I am gaunt and pale. I bring my lips to her and drink. Her burning passion infects me, and it is soothing. I lay her gently on the table.

'Is that Harry Potter drinking alone?' whispers the witch at the next table, just loud enough for me to hear.

Alone? Perhaps. But when I have my Firewhiskey, I am never truly alone. She is eternal, and undying.

From the corner of my eye, I notice a figure approaching. I glance up: it is a handsome black man with high cheekbones, and well-fitting grey robes. In the enchanted glow of the flickering purple candles above, he cuts an impressive figure. He fixes me with a cold stare coupled with a strained smile. I admire his courage. I am no longer approached by fans, not now I am the Man Who Lost His Mind. But this is not a fan, he is too familiar.

He is at my table when I recognise him. I think his name is Zabini, but I can't be too sure.

'This won't be much consolation, Potter,' he says, 'but I wanted to offer my condolences.'

He keeps his distance, and his wand is within reach. Prudent.

I do nothing but stare at him, willing him to leave and take his false condolences with him. He glances down at the purple club chair by my table. I give an imperceptible shake of my head. He seems to understand. His head moves a fraction in what could be mistaken for a nod before retreating. The empty nature of his commiserations are confirmed: he joins Draco Malfoy on the other side of the bar.

I wonder briefly what his motives are. No doubt he will stand for some kind of office, ever the Slytherin. It is fairly smart of him to seem friendly in my time of mourning; it may mean I will not oppose his candidacy. Perhaps he even thinks I will support him once public opinion swings back in my favour. That is not so smart. Public opinion will never favour me again.

My thoughts drift to more important things, like who to interrogate about the murder. Moondrop, that scumbag shylock, would be an obvious first step. But from what I understand, he is a pure-blood and, like the Gaunts before him, it is all he has left. It is not likely that he would associate with a wizard Muggle enough to use C4.

I glance around the pub. The theme is decidedly purple: it infects the dozen tables, the club chairs around them, and even many of the patrons' robes. The flamboyant barman describes it as 'avant-garde', 'the end to painfully traditional hovels', and other such bullshit. I admit the bar (the 'pièce de résistance') is something to behold; the entire structure floats on a radioactive purple cloud in the very centre of the room. When approached, patrons are elevated by the geyser-like plumes that emerge from the ground. There are not many people left tonight, however. I watch the gossipy witch from the next table leave with what is evidently her lover for the night. He has a smug, punch-able face, like so many of the patrons: after all, the _Daily Prophet_ describes this place as the 'watering hole of the rich and famous'. Revolting.

But it serves its purpose. I am able to sit and drink largely undisturbed, something I certainly could not do in the likes of the Leaky Cauldron. And from my usual spot, this alcove in the corner of the room, I can see both exits, and more or less every patron in the place. No surprises.

'More Firewhiskey, Mr Potter?'

The barman is young and handsome; rumour has it he is the illegitimate son of Gilderoy Lockhart. He has the same toothy, sparkly smile, and floppy golden hair. His robes of deepest purple have odd silver symbols dancing across them.

'No, thank you,' I reply.

'You know where to find me!' The pub is a newbuild, and the barman is keen to appease me to further his business.

As the barman floats back up to the bar, I realise something. If I am to catch the killer before Neville does, I must use new methods and new informants. There is no point interrogating someone like Moondrop; Neville will have gotten there first. That is probably one of the reasons why I am forced to attend those god-forsaken sessions with Sayer: to give Neville, and the Unit, a head start.

The Unit has plenty of informants in the underworld, so what I need is something different. But of course. The answer has been in front of my face for the past half hour.

I rise to my feet as quickly as I dare. The world does not rock too much: my lover does not have her hold on me yet. I amble over to where Malfoy and Zabini are having a hushed conversation. Malfoy is the first to look up. Time has not been kind: his hair is receding and there are heavy bags under his eyes.

'What do you want, Potter?'

His tone is lazy, but his eyes are wide and alert.

I rifle through my collection of masks and find the one I need: the school rival.

'I was expecting a better welcome from an old classmate,' I say, as I take the remaining chair.

'Draco and I were just talking about the old days,' says Zabini. He leans back in his chair, seemingly content to watch the inevitable argument between Malfoy and I unfold.

'Were you now?' I ask, leaning back also. I glance at Malfoy, whose hand involuntarily goes to his left forearm. 'I guess some wounds never truly heal.'

Malfoy realises where his hand is and removes it as if burnt.

'You should know,' says Malfoy, looking pointedly at my scar.

'As much trouble and pain as it gave me, I think I prefer my scar, Malfoy.'

'I don't know what you're referring to, Potter.'

My eyes pass over Malfoy's offending forearm. 'Don't you?'

'I was cleared of all charges, as well you know.'

As well I should. Feeling sorry for the coward, I allowed myself to be witness at Malfoy's trial. Rather than tell tales of how his actions led to Dumbledore's death, I revealed how he was kept captive by Voldemort, and how all his Death Eater actions were a charade built to save his family. It is widely believed, with some justification, that had I not intervened, Malfoy would be in a cosy cell in Azkaban. I imagine the thought of being in my debt eats him alive.

'Yes, I'm sure one or two acts to save your own skin excuses a lifetime of supporting Voldemort.' Both Zabini and Malfoy wince. I have them on the back foot. Perfect.

'Potter,' says Zabini, 'do you really think it wise to reopen old wounds?'

'How very bipartisan, Zabini. So tell me, what position are you gunning for?'

Zabini's lips thin. He is clearly unhappy at this new-found attention. 'I don't know what you mean.'

'Well, you're following Malfoy around again after years of estrangement, and you openly approached me for the first time ever today. Clearly you need gold from Malfoy, and a bit of influence and publicity from me.'

Zabini is saved the trouble of a reply by Malfoy's derisive snort.

'Influence?' he scoffs. 'From what, some washed-up has-been? Yes, I'm sure you're the first person the Minister writes to for advice. And publicity? The only publicity Zabini will get from you is questions about his sanity.'

I smile. 'Not bad, Malfoy, but your taunts were a bit sharper at school. I see living on the straight-and-narrow's softened you.'

'I need to head off,' mutters Zabini. Smart. If the argument between Malfoy and I turns into a brawl, the last thing he would want is to be associated with it. What he does not know is that I am in full control. There will be no brawl. I am simply waiting for Malfoy to say something that could legitimately anger me.

For his part, Malfoy barely notices Zabini's departure. I have his attention now, he is fully invested.

'I hear you're seeing a Mind Healer now,' says Malfoy, smirking.

'Yes, I've been advised to see Healer Sayer. You'll never believe who has the appointment after mine: your darling mother.'

I know that this will irk him. He was always such a mummy's boy.

'How do you – what utter nonsense!'

'Well, it makes sense, doesn't it? Her husband's a raging alcoholic and her son is, well, you. You can't really blame her –'

'Shut your mouth, Potter,' snarls Malfoy. 'I know what your game is here. It's pretty sad, really. You come here to drink your sorrows away and spread your misery like a disease. The _Daily Prophet_ 's right, you do need that Mind Healer. I guess it was to be expected, ten years with Loony Lovegood will do that to you –'

And there it is.

I raise my wand over my head and the chair Zabini has just vacated catches Malfoy by the throat and pins him against the wall. He tries to reach for his wand, but too late; I have it in my hand. It is familiar, like an ex-lover from a relationship long ago. With it, I stun the only two people left in the bar: an old man I vaguely recognise from the Wizengamot, and the barman. One final flick and the two doors are locked.

Malfoy squirms against the chair like a fly caught in a spider's web. His face grows redder and redder as he struggles to breathe. He is well and truly terrified now.

'Potter –' he rasps, his face turning an alarming shade of purple that matches the décor.

'It's funny having this wand back,' I say. As I peer at the blackthorn wand, my own keeps Malfoy in place. 'The wand that defeated Tom Riddle … you really don't deserve it.'

'Potter ... c – can't ... breathe ...'

With some regret, I order the chair to ease up a little. I guess childhood grudges really do die hard. Now that he is not choking to death, Malfoy tries fruitlessly to budge the chair.

'You know you really shouldn't struggle so much,' I say.

'I apologise, okay? Now – Now let me go!'

'Your apology won't be enough. I need something from you.'

'The wand? Take it, it has not worked perfectly for me since ... I am having another one made in any case.'

'No,' I say, 'not the wand. What I need is information.'

'Information?'

'Yes, information. You see, we both know that Luna had no enemies, everyone loved her ...' Malfoy's eyes narrow and he looks as though he is ready to argue, so I press on. 'I, on the other hand, have plenty of enemies, and many of those enemies are friends with people you also happen to be friends with.'

'I don't have any –'

With a jab of my wand, Malfoy's head hits the wall with a resounding thud.

'Don't _lie_ to me! This isn't school anymore, I'm a different person now. I don't give a fuck if you live or die. I'm free, Malfoy. Well, nearly – once I find her killer, I'll be free.

'Now, I'm going to give you three seconds to tell me what you know, and then I'll fire a Sectumsempra at your throat. You remember what Sectumsempra feels like, I take it? And this time, there's no Snape to patch you up. You'll bleed all your pure blood out. One ...'

Malfoy stares at me, deathly white, desperately trying to ascertain whether or not I am bluffing. He would be foolish to take the risk.

'Two ...'

Malfoy is a coward, I know he will cave. But why hasn't he yet? Perhaps he really does not know anything.

'Thr –'

'Fine!' yells Malfoy.

I smile. 'Good. Now tell me what you know.'

'There is someone – a friend of a friend, not a friend of mine – who comes in here sometimes. A week ago, he had one too many, and I overheard him talking about Loo – about your wife. Saying all this stuff about how he knew who killed your wife, and he would tell the next person who bought him a drink. I was curious –'

'Curious, or you knew that I would trade anything for the information?'

'I was curious, so I obliged. It took quite a few drinks to get it out of him –'

'Who?' I snarl.

'Some Mud– Muggle-born, I wasn't there to get acquainted with him. Frankly, I don't even know how he gets in here.' Mingled with the fear is a hint of disgust. The war had taught Malfoy nothing. 'This wizard told me that it was a Muggle that did it, can you believe? He lives nearby and, while walking his dog, witnessed this Muggle taking some kind of Muggle variant of Fiendfyre to your house before it happened.'

I could feel the pulse in my neck throbbing. The story fits with what I already know. But ... a Muggle?

'Why doesn't the Ministry know?' I ask.

Malfoy, who is relaxing a little, smirks. 'Has working in whatever broom cupboard you're in really dulled your senses –'

With the barest flick of my wand, the chair presses against Malfoy's throat with a vengeance. I have to remind him who is in charge. His arms flail desperately, and his face betrays his utter anguish. I release the pressure before he passes out.

'Let's try that again, shall we? Why doesn't the Ministry know?'

Malfoy takes a moment to recover. 'The Ministry knows, but Paulson's account conflicts with the evidence the Ministry gathered at the scene. In any case, they didn't want to make this a murder investigation: Shacklebolt's up for re-election next year, and he's a law enforcement Minister. The lower the body count this year, the more likely he is to keep his job next year.'

'The more things change, the more they stay the same,' I say, barely hiding my revulsion. I know that the Ministry deliberately did a sloppy job, but hearing confirmation from Malfoy makes it worse.

'Who is this Muggle, then?'

'I will tell you who he is, but I have some conditions first.'

Malfoy's eyes are narrowed with barely contained greed. He really does not realise what danger he is in.

' _Sectumsempra!_ '

The spell misses Malfoy's right ear by a fraction of an inch and shears off a clump of his hair. There is no more greed. Fear reigns supreme.

'What do you think of my counter-offer?' I ask.

'V – Very well! The Muggle lives at 23 Walcott Square – that's somewhere in London. Now release me, you absolute lunatic!'

I oblige, and follow up with a Memory Charm. All he will remember is that he got very drunk and started throwing curses around. Luckily, I used his wand for the most incriminating spells.

As I undo the damage to the bar, I contemplate what Malfoy has told me. This Muggle is the puppet I witnessed in the _Priori Incantatem_.

I will pay the Muggle a visit and find out who holds the strings.


	7. The Fall of the Peacock

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on the characters and world created by JK Rowling. Anything you do not recognise is my own creation. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

– CHAPTER SEVEN –

 _ **The Fall of the Peacock**_

* * *

Lucius Malfoy stumbles into the gardens of Malfoy Manor, the foil of his surroundings. The grass is freshly mowed; Lucius is unshaven. A carpet of yellows and brown cover the footpath; Lucius wears nothing but a white bathrobe.

A white peacock emerges from the nearby rose bush. Lucius takes one last gulp of his bottle and hurls it at the bird. The peacock ruffles its feathers angrily and struts purposefully away.

'You're not getting away that easily,' slurs Lucius.

Lucius gives chase, slaloming this way and that. He dives at the peacock but misses, landing face-first in the sea of leaves that masks the footpath.

Unbeknownst to the Lord of the Manor, the wrought iron gates creak open. A breeze rolls down the footpath, disturbing the sleepy autumn leaves as it does so. A voice echoes through the air.

'Lucius ... Lucius ...'

Lucius lifts his head. A few leaves remain stuck to his face. He tries to rise to his feet, but falls back. On his second try, he shakily succeeds.

'Who's there?'

The doors to the manor swing open and cast a pearly glow across the footpath. Lucius looks up and sees his darling wife's silhouette at the entrance.

'Narcissa!' he splutters. 'I swear I'm not drinking!'

Narcissa slides inexorably down the footpath. She is dressed in his favourite dressing gown; it ripples with each step like a silvery lake.

She steps out of the light. Her eyes are glazed over and she is holding a knife to her own throat.

'Narcissa!' cries Lucius. His words are clearer now, the alcohol is momentarily held at bay.

'I am commanded here by Death,' she says in a monotone.

'What madness is this? Put the blade down.'

'Tell Death what It needs to know and I will live.'

In his terror, Lucius scrambles for his wand and tries to blast the knife away.

He fails.

Narcissa rolls back the sleeve of her gown. There is a glint of silver as she wrenches the knife across her wrist. Her face is expressionless as crimson erupts from the gash and oozes down her pale hand.

Lucius panics. He raises his wand. A jet of golden fire pierces the night. His wand is no more than a plume of flying splinters.

'Narcissa!' he rasps, staring at where his wand had once been.

'Where is the Resurrection Stone?'

Lucius runs to his stoic wife. He tears off his bathrobe and tries to halt the stream of blood. Narcissa thanks him by slashing her other wrist. He tries to grab the knife but is thrown backwards as if stung by a jolt of electricity.

'Where is the Resurrection Stone?' says Narcissa, placing the dagger once more at her own throat.

'Who is doing this to you, Narcissa? Fight the curse!'

'One last chance, Lucius, or I cut my throat next. Where is the Resurrection Stone?'

'T – The Dark Lord had it!'

'The Dark Lord is dead.' Narcissa begins to cut.

'No! Stop! There is more! Potter dropped it when the Dark Lord hit him with the Killing Curse. The Dark Lord recognised it as part of his own family heirloom. He had it when he met his end!'

'Do not lie to Death.'

'I swear it! On Draco's life, I swear it! In the commotion, I took the Stone from the Dark Lord's body and hid it in the Forbidden Forest; after all, it would not do to be caught with one of the Dark Lord's possessions. When I came to collect it at a later date, it was gone.'

'Gone? Where?'

'My remaining friends in the Ministry suggest it was found in the forest and is now under heavy protection. Now, please, whoever you are, release my wife!'

Narcissa lowers the knife. Lucius sighs in short-lived relief.


	8. Serendipity

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on the characters and world created by JK Rowling. Anything you do not recognise is my own creation. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

– CHAPTER EIGHT –

 _ **Serendipity**_

* * *

'Did you come here a lot when you were at school?' asked Alice, her first words since being dumbstruck by the magnificence of the Hogwarts castle.

'Not in my first six years,' said Neville. 'But in my last year at school, I came here many, many times.'

'Why?'

'I'll tell you when you're a little older, honey.'

'You always say that,' muttered Alice darkly. Her expression was remarkably similar to Hannah's when he would deflect difficult questions about work. But what could he tell her: 'I was leading a revolt against the Dark Lord's right hand man, who actually turned out to be a spy because he loved your Uncle Harry's mum'?

Neville smiled at the restored stone gargoyle as if greeting an old friend.

'The Headmistress is expecting us,' he said.

The gargoyle immediately leapt aside and the wall behind it split apart to reveal the spiral staircase. Much to Alice's surprise, the staircase moved slowly upwards as soon as they stepped on to it and raised them up to the highly polished oak door. As Neville raised his hand to the brass knocker, it swung open.

The office was much the same as it had been under Snape's brief tenure: the former Heads snoozed in their portraits, the claw-footed desk remained polished as ever and the arched windows provided an astounding view of the Quidditch pitch.

'Hello, Neville,' said McGonagall.

'Hello, Professor.'

McGonagall, too, had not changed since Neville was at Hogwarts. In his final year, he had become rather attached to the old Transfiguration teacher. They would meet in secret and she would teach him how to counter the after-effects of the Carrows' punishments. With some persuasion, she had even given him lessons on how to use Transfiguration during duels, so he could pass the knowledge on to the rest of the DA.

'And this must be your daughter,' she said, and her usual stern expression softened. 'I haven't seen you since you were a baby.'

Alice took a small step backwards and gripped on to Neville's robe. She bit her thumbnail nervously.

'She can get shy sometimes,' said Neville.

'Of course. Take a seat. May I offer you some tea and biscuits?' asked McGonagall.

Neville remained standing. 'I'm afraid I can't stay too long, I'm here on official Ministry business.'

McGonagall's lips thinned, but Neville did not take it personally. The Headmistress had never been fond of the Ministry, and was particularly wary of Ministry involvement at Hogwarts.

'So they sent you in an attempt to soften me up?' she said, not unkindly.

'Perhaps. But don't worry, we're not interfering: the Minister would get an earful from Harry if we tried that.' McGonagall smiled faintly at the mention of one of her favourite students. 'We just need to check up on Professor Dumbledore's wand: there may be someone after it.'

McGonagall gave him a strange look, as if he had asked her a particularly intriguing question in class.

'The Ministry sent you?' she said.

After spending so much time with his former Professor, Neville immediately caught the dubiety in her voice. This told him that McGonagall had been in touch someone else at the Ministry. Perhaps the Minister had asked her to keep the theft of the wand quiet. But why, then, would that information not be made available to the Department of Mysteries? The Elder Wand, after all, was an object that greatly interested the Power Division. Neville decided to change tact.

'The truth is, I'm here on Harry's behalf,' he said. 'It's his wand, after all.'

'I am only at liberty to speak of these matters to Ministry envoys,' she said slowly, as if weighing up every word. 'But perhaps you should go and visit Hagrid, he hasn't seen you in such a long time.'

Neville smiled at the crafty witch; she really did hate Ministry vows of silence.

'Perhaps I will. It's always a pleasure seeing you, Professor.'

'And you, Neville.' McGonagall turned and patted Alice on the head. 'I expect I'll be seeing you in these halls sometime soon, young lady.'

All this did was cause Alice to retreat further away, so she was practically hidden behind Neville. Bill had assured him that shyness around strangers was natural for children, but Neville noticed that neither Victoire nor Dominique showed any signs of it. He worried that the loss of her mother at such a young age had had a deeper psychological impact than he realised.

They left McGonagall's office and negotiated the eerily empty halls of Hogwarts. Even after ten years, he found it difficult to quell the memories from the Battle of Hogwarts. They walked along the second floor corridor and he saw the spot he had killed his first, Fenrir Greyback. As they descended the main staircase, he saw Flitwick and Dolohov furiously exchanging spells. When they reached the Entrance Hall, he saw Bellatrix, gleefully duelling anyone who came into her path, dancing into the Great Hall as she did so. The Great Hall ... it was too painful to think about. Ginny had been his first crush, and later his trusted right hand when running the DA.

Neville tore his eyes from the Great Hall, and they stepped outside. He saw Voldemort triumphant, Harry dead at his feet; the Sorting Hat on his head, burning him alive; and the sword of Gryffindor in his hand, and then cleaving Voldemort's snake.

Neville glanced down at Alice, who was eyeing him curiously.

'We're about to meet Hagrid,' he said, as they closed in on the hut. 'He's a very old friend of Uncle Harry's. He's very, very big, but don't let that scare you, he's harmless. Can you be brave for me?'

Alice nodded, but her lip quivered.

When they reached the hut, they found a small note attached to the front door. Written on it, in a barely legible scribble: _In the Forest. Call back at nightfall._

Out of nowhere came a booming bark that caused the door to shake. Alice screamed and clutched his arm.

'It's ok,' said Neville reassuringly, 'it's just his dog.'

Neville sighed. He could assume that the Elder Wand had been stolen and go back to the office, but he knew what Bogand would say. No certainty, no way forward. Another option would be to physically check Dumbledore's tomb. But there was something repugnant about disturbing the dead, particularly if that person was the greatest wizard since Merlin. He would have to go into the Forest.

But where could he leave Alice? McGonagall would not take kindly to babysitting duties, and she was probably busy in any case. The teachers were all on holiday, the house-elves were hardly suitable and there was no way he was leaving her alone. She would have to go with him.

'We're going into the Forest, honey,' said Neville. 'I need you to listen to any instructions I give you very carefully. If there is any serious trouble, I want you to touch your locket and think of home, ok?'

Alice nodded; she seemed far less frightened by the prospect of venturing into the Forbidden Forest than meeting Hagrid. For his part, Neville was confident he could handle anything the Forest threw at him, as long as Alice took the emergency Portkey he had worked into the locket Hannah had once given her.

Neville grasped his wand with one hand and gripped Alice's hand with the other. They ducked into the trees behind Hagrid's hut and traipsed into the green gloom ahead.

'Why're we going into the Forest?' whispered Alice.

'Because Hagrid's in here,' said Neville, forcing his way through several low-hanging branches.

'Why do we need to see him?'

'He has some information I need for work.'

'He knows if someone stole the first brother's wand, doesn't he?'

Her perception startled him. He had not expected her to listen to his conversation with McGonagall, let alone fully understand it. 'It's very important you don't tell anyone anything you know about the first brother's wand. Promise me you won't tell anyone about it, not even Uncle Harry.'

'I promise.'

'And you mustn't say anything when I talk to Hagrid, understand?'

Alice nodded. When they got home, he would have to protect the information using an obscure form of the Fidelius Charm the Department had developed. He lay his wand on his palm and asked it to find the nearest human. It pointed away from the path and into the dark heart of the forest. He just hoped the spell counted Hagrid as a human.

The trees were now so close together that they squeezed out all the sunlight. Neville had to blast away thickly knotted brambles from the ground ahead of them and thickets of thorn either side of them. They had to stop every few minutes: sometimes to check they were going in the right direction, sometimes to reassure Alice that the rustling around them was caused by some harmless creature.

After nearly half an hour of this stuttering progress, the trees began to thin once more. Neville frowned. He was sure that the Forest took at least an hour to traverse; there was no way they could have reached the other side already.

Sunlight filtered through the canopy once more, the brambles underfoot had become healthy grass and the tall, thin trees were spaced at such regular intervals, it looked deliberate.

'Daddy!' squealed Alice, her mutinous expression gone. 'Daddy look!'

'Look where?' said Neville, on edge.

Before he could react, Alice ran ahead of him, and it became abundantly clear what had attracted her attention. A stone's throw away from them was a magnificent unicorn. In the sunlight, its white coat gave it an ethereal glow.

'Alice, don't startle it,' said Neville, jogging after her. But it was too late. At the sight of two humans running at it, the unicorn reared its horned head and took off into the distance.

'Please come back, unicorn!' cried Alice, who broke out into a sprint.

'Stop now, Alice!'

But before Neville could catch her, Alice disappeared out of sight, her screams ringing through the air. His heart stopped. He sprinted for dear life. The next thing he knew, his feet no longer met the ground, and he was in freefall.

With barely enough time to think, he looked below him, where his darling girl was about to hit the floor and shouted, _'IMPEDIMENTA!'_

He could not bask in his relief at having hit his mark. In one fluid movement, he cast a Cushioning Charm at the spot that, seconds later, he crashed into. Alice, her flight slowed down to a crawl, landed in his waiting arms.

Only when she was safely in his embrace did Neville realise that his heart was beating painfully against his chest, as if punishing him for allowing his daughter to come into the Forbidden Forest. He stroked her hair and held her tight. The thought of losing her was too terrible, too painful ...

The ground shook.

Neville placed Alice on the earth next to him and jumped to his feet, wand out. They were in a vast clearing that stretched into the distance. The rest of the Forest was at least a hundred feet above their heads.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

'Alice, I want you to think of home now.'

'No, Daddy.'

Shocked, Neville stared down at his daughter. Her face burned with determination and resolve.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

'Alice, think of home. Now!'

'I'm not leaving you, Daddy!' She was practically shouting now.

'Take the Portkey!'

'You promised me you'll never die! I won't leave!'

Boom. Boom. Boom.

'I'm not going to die –'

A shadow fell over them. Neville whipped around, a dozen curses at the forefront of his mind.

Running towards them was ... a giant. It was not as large as some of the ones Neville had run into, but at around sixteen foot, it was hardly a trifle either. Neville stepped in front of Alice so she was completely blocked from view.

He then raised his wand above his head and brought it down like a sword. With an almighty crack, one of the trees from the Forest above them uprooted itself, landed in front of them with a deafening crash that rivalled the giant's footsteps and began rolling towards the giant.

Squinting with concentration, Neville repeated the act with another tree while keeping the first tree rolling. Then another, and another. The giant was now close enough that they could see its vast boulder of a head. Its Quaffle-sized eyes were fixed on Neville.

The giant was nearly within grabbing distance when it stepped on the first rolling tree. To Neville's dismay, the tree split in two and rolled harmlessly away.

Neville prepared his own Portkey, and took Alice's hand.

The second tree reached the giant at a far greater speed than the first, and caused it to stumble. The third and fourth came in such quick succession that, before the giant could fully contemplate what had happened, it fell backwards and, with an almighty thump that felt like an earthquake, landed on the floor inches from where they stood.

'GRAWPY!'

It was one of the most bizarre sights Neville had ever seen. Hagrid was running towards them, a curtain-sized pink flowery apron draped around his moleskin coat. The pink umbrella that hid his broken wand was raised above his head.

'Put that down before you hurt yourself,' barked Neville.

Hagrid froze. 'Galloping Gorgons! Neville Longbottom?' he said.

'Yes,' said Neville. Suddenly, he understood: the giant must have been the one from the Battle of Hogwarts, the one that had fought against Voldemort's giants.

'What're yeh doin' attackin' Grawpy?'

'Defending myself, and my daughter,' replied Neville coolly.

'Defendin'? Now see here, Grawpy wouldn' hurt a fly!'

Neville eyed the great mound that was Hagrid's half-brother. 'I respectfully disagree.'

'Hagger,' boomed the giant, sending fresh tremors through the ground, 'Grawp fall down.'

Neville recoiled in shock, nearly knocking Alice over in the process. While he had come across his fair share of giants, he had never, _ever_ heard one speak a human language so well.

'Well get up then, yeh silly sausage,' said Hagrid, nudging his brother with his umbrella in a way Neville considered most unwise. 'I musta told yeh a thousand times: don' – run – at – others!'

With a great lurch, the giant pulled itself to its feet. It looked at Neville and Alice curiously, like a child eyeing a new toy. It took a tentative step forward and Alice let out a small squeak. Hagrid poked it once more with his umbrella.

'Get back ter yer house, Grawpy!' he shouted. The giant did not look as though it wanted to budge. 'Go on, off with yer!'

The giant's shoulders hunched in defeat. Reluctantly, it ambled off into the meadow, descended some far-off slope and disappeared from sight.

'Hagrid, what on earth do you think you're doing? There are children up in that castle nine months of the year! It nearly killed my daughter!'

Hagrid stroked his shaggy beard nervously. 'I don' know what's gotten in ter him, ter tell yeh the truth, he's norm'ly so good …'

'And has Professor McGonagall sanctioned this … whatever it is you've done to this place?'

Hagrid nodded his head fervently, and Neville was glad to see he was back-pedalling. 'Yeah! She thought it was only right ter give Grawpy summat after … yer know.'

'And did you get permission from the Ministry before you made such sweeping alterations to a protected site?' said Neville, upping the tempo of his questions to disorientate Hagrid.

''Course! Harry himself came down ter help me an' Minerva with it. Great man, Harry –'

'Are you aware,' pressed Neville, 'that by having a giant on the premises, you're endangering several invaluable magical items including, but not restricted to, the wand Harry used to kill Voldemort?'

The small part of Hagrid's face that was free of hair contorted with indignation.

'Is tha' what the Ministry sent yer here fer? It's just like I told that twit in a suit, see? Grawpy didn' have nothin' ter do with that wand bein' nicked! An' nor did I, before yer bosses get any smart ideas!'

Neville struggled to hide his smile. How Professor Dumbledore ever shared even the smallest Order secret with this man was beyond him.

'It's alright, Hagrid,' said Neville, 'nobody's accusing you of anything. And even if they did, Harry wouldn't let it see the light of day.' He paused for a moment. 'And neither would I.'

Hagrid cracked a toothy grin and thumped Neville on the back so hard, he nearly fell over. 'Always knew you were a good'un, jus' like yer parents. And I'll wager yer kid'll turn out just the same, won' yer?'

Alice, who had spent the majority of the encounter peeking out from behind Neville's robes, gave a small nod.

'That's the spirit! So what brought yer 'round these parts, if it weren' Ministry bus'ness?'

'Harry wanted me to check up on you,' said Neville, barely having to think about it.

Hagrid produced a table cloth sized handkerchief from one of his many pockets and dabbed at his eyes. 'Even with evr'ythin' he's bin goin' through, he thinks to check up on me … what a heart tha' man has!'

'I'll need to get back and see him now,' said Neville, not untruthfully. 'I guess the nearest Apparition point will be closer than Hogwarts.'

'You can Apparate from here, truth be known,' said Hagrid. 'Minerva had ter change the Hogwarts boundaries, see, otherwise the Gov'ners woulda bin all up in arms.'

'Well, it's been nice seeing you, and your, erm, friend.'

'Me brother, actually,' said Hagrid proudly.

'Right,' said Neville. With that, he clasped Alice's hands and Disapparated.

They reappeared in Neville's car.

'You told Hagrid we were going to see Uncle Harry,' piped Alice, disappointment apparent in her voice.

'You know what,' said Neville, 'that's not a bad idea.'

He knew that Harry was grieving, that he should leave him well alone, but this was important. Neville had to know if the cloak had also gone missing. He had to tell Harry that his wand had been stolen. The more he learnt about this Death character, the more he thought it was a two-man job. To slip into Hogwarts and steal something as well protected as the Elder Wand took unfathomable skill. To break into Godric's Hollow, it was necessary to have ward information available only to trusted Ministry employees. The signs pointed towards a turncoat in the Unit. And, if they truly wanted ownership of the Elder Wand, the turncoat would be gunning for Harry.

It was Wednesday evening. Harry always visited Ginny on Wednesday evenings. Both Bogand and Neville had tried to convince him to change his pattern to minimise the risk of assassination, but Harry was thick-skulled when it came to matters of the heart.

'Hold on,' said Neville, and Disapparated once more.

They reappeared in the reception of St Mungo's. There were only two other people waiting: one witch seemed completely normal, while the other had a shark fin protruding out of her robes. This was one of the reasons why Harry insisted on Wednesday evenings; statistically, it was the time least accidents occurred.

Neville approached Martha, the Welcomewitch.

'Neville!' she said, surprised. 'And Alice, too, what a surprise. Are you here to see –?'

'Yes,' said Neville shortly.

'Of course,' said Martha. 'Just give me five minutes to send a message up; we weren't expecting you so soon after your last visit.'

Neville nodded and they took the seats opposite the shark woman.

'I thought we were going to see Uncle Harry?' said Alice.

'We are,' said Neville. 'He's here visiting Ginny, so we can talk to him after we've said hi to grandma.'

'But we didn't bring her anything!'

Neville opened his mouth to reply when the headline on a nearby _Daily Prophet_ caught his eye. He grabbed the paper and read:

 _ **Malfoy Suicide**_

 _by Family correspondent Kirk Worry_

 _Philanthropist Lucius Malfoy and his wife Narcissa Malfoy were found dead in their Wiltshire manor in the early hours of the morning. Ministry officials have confirmed the cause of death to be alcohol-induced suicide._

 _The Malfoys had fallen from grace a decade previous and were saved from a sentence in Azkaban by the evidence of Harry Potter. They have been in financial turmoil ever since. It is thought an eviction notice from Gringott's sent the infamous couple over the edge._

 _[Story continues on page 3]_

Neville did not know how he felt about the Malfoy deaths. On one hand, Voldemort would be alive and well if not for Narcissa Malfoy, but on the other, Lucius Malfoy had been Voldemort's right-hand man for many years. Many still believed that Lucius Malfoy had given the order to have his parents tortured.

'Neville? Your mother is ready to see you now.'

'Thank you, Martha,' said Neville, giving the pretty witch a small smile.

Neville and Alice climbed the familiar rickety staircase lined with portraits of famous Healers. One of Neville's earliest memories was tumbling down them. His Gran had been very angry that accidental magic had not saved him, and let him know it. Eventually Neville and Alice came to the double doors marked 'Spell Damage'.

Beyond the doors, they were met by Elladora, a motherly-looking Healer. They exchanged pleasantries before she led them down the corridor and into the Janus Thickey Ward. Most of the beds were empty. Neville was relieved to see that Lockhart's curtains were drawn. They came to the two beds at the end.

Lead-like grief embraced him like an old friend when he caught sight of his mother. In the year since his father had died, her remaining wisps of hair had fallen out, her face was almost skeletally thin and her large eyes stared lidlessly at the ceiling. His mother was dying. The only signs of life were her rasping breaths.

'Hello, Mum,' said Neville. He lightly placed his hand in hers. It was freezing cold. The corners of her mouth twitched, but she gave no other signs of recognition. 'I brought Alice.'

Alice wrapped her arms around her grandmother and placed her head on her namesake's chest.

'Hey, Grandma.'

Neville had unflinchingly told Alice the reason why her grandmother was in St Mungo's a year previous. Others may have felt the story too graphic for a toddler, but he wanted to share with her the fierce pride he felt towards his parents.

'Mum, I'm going to be back in a few minutes. Alice is going to tell you all about the zoo.'

Needing no further encouragement, Alice dived into an animated anecdote. Neville watched her for a moment. He tried to imagine his mother at that age, and wondered if she had had the energy Alice did. He wondered, as he often did, whether she would approve of the way he was raising her. He liked to think it would have been similar to the way she and his father would have raised him. After all, they were Aurors: it was hardly a nine-to-five job.

Before he dove deeper into the fantasies from his childhood, he left Alice with his mother and went in search of Ginny's bed. But Ginny was not there. Elladora must have taken her on a short walk, which meant Harry was not here. Perhaps he had left recently.

Neville noticed, for the first time, that the bed next to Ginny's was no longer empty. A man lay there. He was hitting out at the air as though he was being attacked. He looked vaguely familiar.

Neville drew closer, and his jaw dropped. It was Lazarus, lord of the underworld, the wizard the Auror department had been trying to charge for years.

Lazarus did not register Neville's presence. He kept thrashing around and muttering. Neville went in close enough to hear.

'Stone ... Death ... Stone ... Death ... Stone ... Death ...'

Neville froze: there was only one person Lazarus could be talking about, only one person who could have torn Lazarus' security to pieces.

Death had left behind an eye witness.


	9. Walcott Square

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on the characters and world created by JK Rowling. Anything you do not recognise is my own creation. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

– CHAPTER NINE –

 _ **Walcott Square**_

* * *

The night is wet and windy. A group of young witches bustle past me, filling the air with the smell of cheap perfume and even cheaper rum. Upon closer inspection, I see that they are Muggles dressed as witches; any witch caught wearing such revealing garb would be the subject of scandal. I watch the young women, who are huddling together for protection, fight against Mother Nature's onslaught. They make slow progress past an abandoned shop front and turn right, and away.

I glance around. In the mizzled light of the dying street lamps, I see no Muggles. The rain lashes down with such ferocity that it is difficult to be sure, but if I can't see them, I am sure that they can't see me.

I take out my Unit-issued Deluminator, developed based on Dumbledore's design, and put the feeble streetlights out of their misery. The cobbled Victorian street is plunged into darkness, and I can now be certain that I will not be seen.

Time to play.

A gust of wind grabs my heavy, rain-soaked robes. I could cast protective charms around myself, but I do not. I like the rain, I like the wind. As a child, I would watch thunderstorms and will it to rain harder. Thunderstorms meant no school, and no school meant I did not have to deal with Dudley's gang. Without his cronies around him, Dudley was a far less intimidating prospect. I tilt my head back and allow the rain to pound onto my face. It is freezing. It is delicious.

Satisfied, I take out my Hand of Glory. It is a truly ingenious magical object, one that has helped me out in countless missions. I guess I have Malfoy to thank for the inspiration. Instantly, it grants me a better view of the road than the streetlamps ever did.

Walcott Square is the kind of road that Aunt Petunia would regard with scorn. The terraced houses are narrow and cramped. There are boarded windows, dislodged doors and dated 'For Sale' signs as far the eye can see. It is perfect.

My shoes, pregnant with rainwater, squelch with every step I take towards number twenty-three. As I draw near, I see that it is one of the few houses with a gate. I notice the shabby car parked outside is the only one with no signs of intrusion.

I draw level with the dark hedge and peer over it to see that the man who would put me at rest has not drawn his curtains. I can see him quite clearly in the smallest living room I have ever seen. He is lounging on a moth-eaten couch watching an old-fashioned panelled television, the kind Dudley had discarded decades previous.

But he is not alone. He holds in his arms a small child, no more than a baby, who has a mop of untidy hair. It is the same shade of jet black as its father. I watch for a little while, and wait. Neither man nor baby looks in my direction. I touch the cold gate, rough with rust, when a woman enters. Her dark red hair is tied into a bun and I am reminded of my mother.

She saunters over to the man whose messy black hair reminds me so much of my own, and curls up beside him. The baby, delighted at the sight of its mother, crawls off the father and leaps into the mother's arms.

My eyes sting. A stab of pain runs up my arm and I realise I have been digging my hand into the gate.

What is wrong with me? These are not my parents; I know exactly where my parents are. I do not even need to feel guilty; I am not here to hurt any of them. I simply need to extract the name of Luna's killer and leave. I try and keep Luna to the forefront of my mind, but it is difficult. I cannot help but see James and Lily, and the life I could have had. I wonder what Sayer would make of this.

The gate creaks a little as I push it open, but the family does not hear. I raise my wand to the door, and with a soft click it opens. With an almighty howl, the wind slams the door against the wall, and my cover is blown.

The baby begins to cry.

'W – Who's there?'

The man who could be my father emerges from a door to the right. He has barely enough time to register surprise when I whisper, _'Petrificus Totalus!'_

His arms snap to his side and he falls like log. The force of his body hitting the floor shakes the house. I step over the man and enter the living room.

The woman, unlike her husband, does not register fear. She places the baby down on the couch and reaches for a gun that lies by a badge on the three-legged coffee table. I barely have time to transfigure the rug.

She fires a round.

Each bullet meets my newly-transfigured steel shield with a deafening clang. The baby cries harder. The woman's eyes widen with shock.

'Who –'  
 _  
Stupefy!  
_  
She falls backwards onto the couch, missing the baby by inches, and lies quite still.

The baby is bawling now. I wish it would stop. I do not risk Stunning a child so young, so I silence it instead. It stares at me with adorable green eyes. I had always yearned to have children, but Luna wanted to wait. Now I may never know what it feels like. It is something else her murderer took from me. With some effort, I turn away.

This has been messy. The gunfire alone will have woken up the entire street, or whatever is left of it.

' _Repello Muggletum_ ,' I say, waving my wand in a wide arc. That should be enough; I am more than a match for any wizard, should one come snooping about.

I return to the hallway where the man's eyes are screaming. I partially remove the body bind so he can talk.

'Who are you? What have you done with Mary and Peter? Take whatever you want, just please don't hurt them!'

'Calm down,' I say, standing over him, 'I haven't –'

'I heard gunshots! You killed her, didn't you?'

His face is full of anguish and fear. His eyes dart furiously between me and my Hand of Glory.

'Is that her hand? You sick fuck! Oh God, I can't believe it! Mary –'

'Shut up!' I snap.

I pocket the Hand: I will no longer need it. I levitate the man and bring him to the living room. With the four of us in it, it is beginning to feel quite cramped. I prop him against a dilapidated old cupboard that is itself leaning vicariously against the wall. The shelves are full of books, and behind a glass cabinet is an assortment of photos littered around dust-strewn fine-bone china, a relic of a better time for the family. The baby has stopped crying and stares expectantly at his father.

'You see?' I say. 'I haven't harmed either one of them.'

'And Mary?'

I rennervate Mary, who gingerly raises her head. Before she gets any firearm-related ideas, I stun her once more.

'See,' I say, 'she is just sleeping.'

'How are you …? What are you –'

'Stop spluttering. The sooner you tell me what I want to know, the sooner I leave you be, never to return.'

The man glances at his family, and then back at me.

'What do you want from me?' he whispers.

'Does the name Harry Potter mean anything to you?'

He is confused, and it genuine. 'No ...'

'Or Luna Potter?'

'Luna Potter ...' he murmurs, and his face contorts with the strain of trying to remember something. After a moment, he seems to give up. 'No, the name doesn't ring a bell. Will you let me go now?'

I sigh. I had not expected it to be simple. I take a few paces towards the man so that there are only a few inches between us, and I have an unimpeded view of his dark eyes.

He flinches. 'What're you –'

 _'Legilimens!'_

His pupils grow wider and wider until I am engulfed in them. A haze of partly-formed memories swim past me. I see glimpses of a skinny child being bullied, a man hitting a woman while the same child watches from under the bed, a teenager babysitting a young boy with slick, black hair. I bat these memories away and dive deeper: I see Mary in a wedding dress, a dense fog, Peter being born under a glare of hospital lights. I stop and summon the dense fog, which passes by so quickly I almost miss it.

The fog refuses to solidify into a memory. Instead it seems to call other memories to act as a shield. But I am a far better Legilimens than I ever was an Occlumens. I chase the fog, parrying useless memories as they come.

I manage to corner the fog in the darkest recesses of the man's mind; a man, I understand, whose name is Jack. But still it refuses to solidify.

Jack has been Obliviated, and not just by anyone. Whoever did this was a wizard of prodigious skill. If I am to get this memory, I will have to delve deep; so deep that Jack will never recover. I think of his wife, Mary, and his son, Peter, and of Neville and his mother, who is in a living death in Ginny's ward.

The fog is gone. It has used my hesitation to escape. I curse myself. But then again, would I have been able to callously tear this family apart for my own personal gain? No, I will think of another way.

The darkness dissolves to reveal Jack's face, which is now pale and sickly. His breaths are sharp and quick, and his eyes stare straight ahead, lidless and unseeing. I almost went too far.

But then I see it. There, in the corner of my eye, gleaming in the glare of the television. It is a photo in grainy colour. I recognise Jack immediately; he is the skinny boy on the right with a shock of jet black hair. A middle-aged man has one hand on Jack's shoulder and another on a boy who he greatly resembles. He is young and smiling – something I have never seen him do as an adult – but it is unmistakeably Boris Bogand.

I stare at the young Bogand for what might have been minutes, or hours. The world has been stripped bare, and all that remains is me and my boss, and my dawning comprehension.

I must be sure. There must be no mistakes. Shakily, I reach for the cupboard and open the glass cabinet. I pick up the photograph. It is solid. It is real.

Slowly, I look up at Jack. His lips are moving. I realise he must have been speaking this entire time. He has made a remarkably swift recovery from my intrusion into his mind.

I point to Bogand. 'Who is this?' I say.

'A – A childhood friend,' says Peter, his face contorted in confusion. 'You said you'd leave –'

'What's his name?'

Jack's eyes narrow a little. 'Boris, Boris Bogand. But why do you –'

'How do you know him?'

'He – He used to live down my road. We grew up together, we're childhood friends.'

'Childhood friends ...' I whisper.

Childhood friends. That would surely make Bogand a Muggle-born, or at the very least have strong ties to the Muggle world. Luna's murderer also has ties to the Muggle world.

'C4,' I say.

'W – What?'

'C4,' I repeat, this time a little louder. 'What do you know of it?'

Jack is incredulous now, but I do not care. This could be it.

'Quite a lot. I work for Brand Brothers; we manufacture C4, amongst other things. Why?'

It was Bogand.

I can see it in my mind's eye. That slick fuck casting the Imperius Curse on his old friend and getting him to trigger the explosives from a safe distance. And of course the memory charm was perfect: he had learned it from the same man who taught me.

Bogand, you treacherous piece of shit, why? Was he afraid that I was rising too fast, that pretty soon the Wizengamot would be clamouring to have me replace him? Or did he think that Luna was too much of a distraction, that I could never do the job properly with her alive? Or ... he wants my Hallows.

Crack!

I have been gripping the photo so tightly that the glass frame snaps in two. I allow the pieces to fall out of my hand. I do not care that my hand is now bleeding. I do not feel it. It is nothing compared to Bogand's betrayal.

He wants my Hallows. That must be the explanation. It explains why he asked to examine my cloak last year. It explains why, two years ago, he drilled me with questions about how the Elder Wand differs from my own. As isolated incidents, they did not register, but now I see them as part of a greater tapestry.

'YOU SAID YOU'D LEAVE US BE!'

My head snaps back towards Jack, who now looks more afraid than he has ever been.

'Yes,' I say, barely above a whisper. I raise my wand. _'Obliviate!'_

It is a simple procedure, particularly so since he has been Obliviated before. His eyes glaze over; he will remain so for some time, but it is late, and I doubt such a young family expects visitors at this hour. I Rennervate his wife and give her the same treatment. She is a little more difficult. Finally, I turn to the child, who is eerily still. No, I can't do it. By the time he is old enough to communicate what he has seen, it will be too late.

The clock is ticking for Bogand.

I leave the house, lost in my thoughts. Bogand almost certainly has the Stone. I need the Stone, and I need him dead. But which do I do first: kill him or recover the Stone? If he is neutralised, the Wizengamot will move swiftly to appoint a new Head which, given my current press, will not be me. The fate of the Stone will then be in doubt, an unacceptable outcome. If I take the Stone first, Bogand will know that I am the perpetrator. He will expel me from the Unit, and possibly have me neutralised ...

... Unless he does not know that I have taken the Stone.

I can use the replica the goblins made for me, and then only a goblin will know the difference. If Bogand has the Stone, he will have hidden it in the Unit. It is the perfect cover: after all, one of the Unit's stated aims is to protect such objects. Once I pinpoint exactly where it is, I can swap the real Stone with the fake, neutralise Bogand, and then work on waking Luna up.

When I find the Stone, I will need to examine the protective charms Bogand has around it. Doubtless he will be alerted when it is removed, but there are countless other charms and curses he could have placed around it. Unlike Dumbledore, I do not have an expert like Snape around to patch me up if things go badly.

I realise that my feet have carried me further down Walcott Square, away from where I had arrived. It is no longer raining, but the wind relentlessly buffets the ramshackle old street.

Suddenly, I feel a familiar tug. I stop. There is some kind of ... residue in the air. I can't quite put my finger on what it is. It reminds me of a village I visited in Kenya with Luna ...

 _The sun beats mercilessly down on the savannah. The heat makes the air shimmer. A group of cows in a nearby enclosure swish their tails furiously in a vain attempt to cool themselves down._

 _Our guide, an old, stooped wizard leans against his staff. Far from his usual enthusiastic demeanour, he is suddenly stiff and wary._

' _You're afraid,' says Luna, in that perceptive-yet-dreamy way of hers. Her dirty blonde hair clings to her face. Her eyes remain protuberant despite the sweat dripping into it. She has decided against a cooling charm, she says it attracts Dungwraiths._

 _'Yes, I am afraid,' whispers the guide, 'come quickly now.'_

 _'Why are you afraid?' I say._

 _'Bad spirits here,' he says, gesturing furiously at us to keep up with his quickening pace. For a wizard who looked as though a strong gust of wind would send him flying, he really could get moving._

 _'Bad spirits?' asks Luna, tilting her head to one side._

 _'Yes. Big accident here many years ago. Bad witch made experiment. Stupid witch. Whole village goes boom. Now bad magic in the air. It infect you if you stay long. Now come!'_

 _I close my eyes and concentrate. I could kind of see what he means: the air feels different here, and not in a good way. I am ready to accede to his demands, but Luna remains quite still. She is staring at something over my shoulder. I turn around and follow her gaze. A stone's throw away from the cows, seemingly invisible to the young boys pacing around the enclosure, are three rows of hastily assembled graves. Each is marked with a cross fashioned out of twigs. It is clear that whoever lay those graves was as keen to get away from the area as our guide is._

 _Luna walks over to the graves; not with her usual carefree amble, but with determination and intent._

 _She kneels down in front of each grave in turn, and seems to be performing a silent prayer. I do not understand why she is doing it, but I know that this is personal. I watch from a distance._

 _We never speak of it again._

How strange that I should feel the same aura around a rat-infested, abandoned Muggle hovel. But I have no time to investigate. I have to pay a visit to the Ministry. After that, I need to work out if Bogand has a routine.

If he does, he will be dead within the week.

I take out the Deluminator, release the street's lights, and Disapparate.

I reappear in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic. It is blissfully empty. My feet take the familiar route past the Fountain of Magical Brethren, a sleeping watchwizard and beyond the golden gates at the end of the hall.

To my surprise, there are two wizards waiting for lifts beyond the gates. One is an Auror I vaguely recognise, and the other is Neville.

Neville is the first to notice me. His eyes widen in surprise before darting to the Auror. I can see that Neville is excited about something; he is fidgeting with his hands and bouncing ever so slightly on the balls of his feet. Has he discovered something? Did he, like Malfoy, interrogate the eye-witness? I cannot have him tipping Bogand off; our Head is likely to be less scrupulous when it comes to breaking through memory charms.

'Harry, what a pleasant surprise,' says Neville jovially.

'Hello, Neville,' I say.

The Auror turns around. He is young and sleep-deprived, clearly a new recruit. Neville and I must be guarded while he is around.

'Mr Potter,' says the Auror, a little star-struck. 'I was so sorry to hear –'

'Thank you,' I say curtly.

The lift directly ahead of us arrives. As we enter, the Auror presses for level two, I level three and Neville level four. The grill slams shut and with a lurch, the lift hurtles backwards, and up.

'You're working late,' I say to Neville.

'Yes, but I've had a breakthrough that I have to report to Scamander as soon as possible.'

'Big breakthrough, is it?'

'Huge.'

The lift grinds to a halt, and a cool, female voice says, 'Level Four: the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.'

'Well, this is me. See you soon, Harry.'

I return Neville's wave, and the lift takes me away. I can't help but glower at the remaining Auror. If it weren't for him, I could have questioned Neville further and worked out what it is he knows. But instead, I can only guess. I know that he's found a witness, but the question is, which one?

'Level Three: the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.'

I storm down the dimly lit hall with a quickened pace. I have to get to the Stone before Bogand puts the pieces together and switches the hiding place. Damn it Neville, why do you have to be so good?

I tear past the Obliviators' offices and the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad. The bracketed torches roar into life as I approach and extinguish themselves once I have passed.

Finally, I come to a shabby little corridor that branches off from the main corridor. At the end is a door that could be the entrance to a broom cupboard. There is no handle. I place my wand in the small groove and place my hand next to it. But there is no lettering.

I am locked out.

I try every magic known to open doors, from Alohamora to the Hand of Glory, but none work.

'Fuck!' I yell, and kick the door with all my might.

It does not budge.

Bogand saw me coming. He knew I would find out. He is good, but I am better.

I will find another way in.


	10. Death Unmasked

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on the characters and world created by JK Rowling. Anything you do not recognise is my own creation. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

– CHAPTER TEN –

 _ **Death Unmasked**_

* * *

Neville sat outside Bogand's office, fidgeting furiously. He had located an eye-witness that could pin-point the target, all within twenty-four hours. He was pretty sure this feat was unheard of in the Unit. It would fast-track him to promotion. This meeting with Bogand could well be career-defining.

Neville looked down at his feet. The flickering blue candles above were reflected in the black floor, making it look like Neville was floating on a sea of dark water.

 _'Stone … Death … Stone … Death … Stone … Death …'_

He could not get Lazarus' voice out of his head. Why did it have to be Lazarus? Why did it have to be someone who was being guarded by Aurors day and night? It was the only reason why he was sitting outside Bogand's office and not starting the final hunt.

Most troubling of all was the fact that Lazarus was alive. Death was meticulous, Death was a perfectionist. He had left a single hair behind at the Fletcher scene, a hair that did not even belong to a person. He had killed every single potential eye witness at Merlin's Beard. There were no signs of a break-in at Dumbledore Tomb: Neville had checked it after he had dropped Alice off at Bill's.

And yet Lazarus was alive. Had Death assumed that the Ministry would not break the law and dive into Lazarus' mind? If Neville's hunch was right and it was a turncoat from the Unit, he would know that not to be the case. Had Death been distracted at the crime scene? There were certainly no signs of that: Neville had canvassed it twice and, other than the anomaly of Lazarus' survival, the scene was immaculate. Not even a stray hair this time.

Which meant Death wanted to leave Lazarus behind.

Without warning, Bogand's door sunk into the floor. Neville got up. Every step he took echoed down the empty hallway.

Bogand's office was the reverse of the hallway. In fact, it was an exact replica of Neville's office: everything down to the position of the potions in the glass cupboard was the same. Neville suspected it was a glamour to protect Bogand's work. The intense light meant Neville had to squint before he could properly make out his boss sitting behind the desk Neville had grown so accustomed to.

The most conspicuous thing about Boris Bogand was his relative youth. He alone amongst the Minister's Council was under the age of fifty. Unlike any self-respecting ex-Director, Bogand was healthy and wholesome. His tendency to wear Muggle clothing – he was currently wearing a dark, expensive-looking suit – put him at odds with the other senior Ministry figures, who were all pure-blood. Not that Neville knew his blood status. In fact, the only thing he was sure of where his boss was concerned was that he knew nothing about him. Neville might have questioned whether the man was indeed Head of the Department if it weren't for the heavy bags under his eyes.

Bogand waited for Neville to sit before he barked, 'Report.'

'I have an eye witness that can give us a physical profile on Target 201.'

Bogand folded his arms.

'Then why are you here?'

'The eye witness is in St Mungo's; his mind is addled. We would have to break in by force.'

'I repeat: why are you here?'

'It's Lazarus.'

Bogand leaned back in chair and carefully ran his hands through his slicked-back hair. A protracted silence fell between them as Bogand stared at a spot somewhere over Neville's shoulder.

Finally, Neville had to break the silence. 'So, can I stage a body swap?'

Bogand considered Neville for a moment then said, 'No.'

'No? How else do you suggest we get at Lazarus?'

'Find another witness.'

'There'll be no other witnesses!'

Bogand's eyes narrowed. 'Perhaps you are too close to this, perhaps I should assign another …'

'No!' Neville took a deep breath; Bogand was a man of hard facts and cold logic. 'I'm the best wizard for this one, you know that. Why can't we take him? We out-rank the Aurors.'

'We may not be accountable to the Minister,' said Bogand carefully, 'but we are accountable to the Security Council at the Wizengamot. Any attempt to move Lazarus will alert not only the target, who left him there for this exact purpose, but also the Ministry.'

Neville had to fold his arms to stop himself from slamming his hand on the desk.

'The Ministry couldn't detect our presence if their lives depended on it,' said Neville.

'And yet with Lazarus so well guarded, there is always the chance of a mistake. Our primary goal is not to get caught: if the Minister were to discover us, the consequences would be dire, both for us and our counterparts abroad.'

'I could claim to be working on my own if I'm caught.'

'Until the Department discovers a fool-proof way of fighting Veritaserum, no Unit agent is to stand trial.'

'This target is dangerous, sir! Isn't one of our main aims to protect important magical items? Well, the target has the Elder Wand and possibly Harry's cloak.'

Bogand's expression steeled. 'The Resurrection Stone is safe. Which means that you can focus on your main objective: to apprehend the target for attempting to murder one of our own. We shall recover the other items when we have the target in our custody.'

'The target is one of us!'

Bogand stood up swiftly. Neville had never seen him so angry; it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He had only ever felt such raw power when, in his fourth year at Hogwarts, Dumbledore stormed off to the castle at the end of the Triwizard Tournament. Or perhaps from Voldemort when he had killed the Dark Lord's snake.

'It is not one of us.'

Neville could not believe what he was hearing. How could Bogand be so close-minded?

' _Suspect everyone_ : isn't that what we're meant to do? Isn't that what differentiates us from the Aurors?'

Bogand sat back down and his demeanour was composed once more. 'I know far more on this topic than you could imagine. We leave Lazarus be: that is my final decision. Now get on with the case or I'll assign someone else in your stead.'

Not trusting himself to speak, Neville stormed out of the office. He had expected praise, perhaps a word of caution. He might even have expected a reasoned debate … but this? It was almost as though Bogand did not want him to find the target …

Neville stood stock still in the room with the revolving doors.

 _'Due to the careful warding around Victim 345's residence, the Unit's investigation points to Target 201 being a Muggle-born witch or wizard.'_

'Is tha' what the Ministry sent yer here fer? It's just like I told that twit in a suit, see?'

Neville shook his head as he paced down the ninth floor corridor and hopped into an empty lift.

There was no way … could _Bogand_ be Death? It was preposterous, but then … was it? What did he know about his boss? Perhaps he feared Harry rising too high in the Unit and one day superseding him. He failed to kill Harry using Muggle means, and knew that the Unit not taking on the case would raise suspicions with the Wizengamot. But there were so many holes, so many problems with the theory.

Neville had to talk to Harry.

'Alright, Longbottom, how's the kid?' called Eric the watchwizard as Neville swept past.

'Shit,' muttered Neville. He was late for picking Alice up from Bill's. Neville swerved off to the right, flung a handful of Floo powder into a gilded fireplace and said, 'Northey Avenue.'

Neville rolled out of Bill's fireplace to find the family eating around their dinner table. Three things put Neville on edge. Firstly, the table was missing a Bouillabaisse. Fleur always whipped up the most delightful Bouillabaisse on Friday evenings as a reward to the family for a hard week's work. Secondly, the family was happily eating away despite the fact that it was midnight. Finally, there were only four plates set at the table.

Alice was missing.

Neville's wand was instantly in his hand.

'Bill,' he said.

Rather than jump in fright at the unexpected appearance of Neville in his living room, Bill merely turned his head lazily. The other Weasleys did not even look up from their plates. They merely continued ladling their food in utter silence.

'Yes, Neville?' said Bill. His voice lacked warmth; it was robotic, pre-programmed.

'Bill,' said Neville, 'where's Alice?'

'Alice?' It was as though he had never heard the name before in his life.

'Yes,' said Neville, his voice shaking a little, 'my daughter.'

'She was never here,' said Bill, with finality.

' _Legilimens!_ ' hissed Neville. Bill's eyes grew wider and wider until they seemed to swallow up the whole room. But there were no memories to find here. Just a thick fog. Neville had seen this fog before: Bill had been Obliviated.

Rather than question the intrusion on his privacy, Bill turned back to his meal and continued as normal.

Neville staggered backwards. His daughter had been taken. Blood began pumping in his ear. His heart constricted painfully. His head was light and dizzy. _His_ Alice. Gone. Taken by Death.

Taken by Bogand.

Neville clutched the mantelpiece for support. No. No, he would not let this happen. He had to gather his thoughts. He must not panic. That is what Bogand wanted …

… But he could not. Alice. The love of his life. Gone!

He needed help. He needed someone objective, somebody trained in tracking people down. Somebody who was completely unconnected to Bogand and his damned Unit. Had it been any other situation, he would not have dreamed of it. But he was the best young tracker the Ministry ever had. They said he spent his days drunk. For Alice's sake, Neville hoped beyond hope that he did not spend his nights in a similar fashion.

Neville grabbed a handful of Floo powder, his hand shaking so much that some of it drizzled onto the carpet below.

'R – Ron Weasley's House!'

He found himself in a living room that may once have been cosy, but now bore the wounds of neglect. The putrid stench of festering vomit and rum hung in the air; the shelves lay at an angle; and a man, no older than Neville, lay beside an upturned armchair, his loud snores rising and falling like a tide.

As Neville drew closer, he realised that the smell of rum was coming from Ron himself.

' _Rennervate!_ ' said Neville, his voice barely above his whisper.

Ron groaned and turned his head. His lank, sodden hair clung to one half of his face. A glance at the other half made Neville think that this was an improvement. Every inch of skin was covered in wiry beard, dirt or bruises. His red hair made it look as though his entire head was on fire.

'Ron,' said Neville, 'I need your help.'

But Ron's head had collided with the carpet with a dull thud and his snores filled the room once more. This man was beyond a Sobriety Potion; what he needed was a stint at St Mungo's. And meanwhile Alice could be dead, or worse.

Neville stood and took deep breaths, trying to calm himself. Alice was a target, not his daughter. A target that he must find. Calm down and do your fucking job, thought Neville.

The thought of Alice sprawled in a ditch somewhere crossed his mind. Or, worse, Bogand with his pale hands around her neck.

'Harry,' breathed Neville. 'I need Harry.'

Neville felt a tug at the navel and Bill's kitchen swirled out of sight. It was replaced by the dining room of Harry's new flat. The first thing he saw was blonde hair and a round, pink face.

'Alice!' cried Neville, relief flooding over him.

Alice was seated on Harry's black leather sofa, avidly reading a first edition copy of _The Free House-Elf_. Her feet were hanging off the edge of the sofa where they kicked merrily. She was safe.

'Alice,' said Neville again, but Alice did not look up. Fear smothered him once more.

Neville closed the gap between them and tried to embrace his daughter. But he could not. Alice looked up at him. No, she looked right _through_ him. She did not know he was there. Was this some spell of Harry's to protect her from Bogand?

'Uncle Harry!' she cried, so suddenly that Neville jumped. 'I'm at the part where you free Dobby. I'm reading it all by myself!'

'Good girl.'

The voice was hoarse through lack of use, but it was unmistakeably Harry. Neville whirled around. Harry stood by the narrow doorway. He had lost a lot of weight; robes that once clung to him were hanging loosely. Heavy bags under his eyes betrayed a lack of sleep and his skin was deathly white.

'Now go get ready for bed,' said Harry, his eyes fixed on Neville. 'It's getting very late and you need to be up nice and early tomorrow.'

'Yes, Uncle Harry,' said Alice. She gave Harry a brief hug and disappeared down the corridor.

'You can lift the spell,' said Neville, finally finding his voice. 'I can protect her from here.'

'I know you can,' rasped Harry, his eyes boring into Neville. 'Would you like something to drink?'

'No,' said Neville, frowning.

'Suit yourself.'

Harry sprawled onto the sofa in the spot Alice had just vacated, looking like nothing was wrong. Neville kept his wand in his hand and positioned himself between the fireplace and the window, opposite a gold-framed portrait of Godric's Hollow.

'You took Alice from Bill's house,' said Neville.

'Yes.'

'And you Obliviated them in the process?'

'Yes.'

A cold feeling was trickling down Neville's spine. The dismissive way Harry admitted to his crimes worried him more than the deeds themselves.

'Why?'

'Because I needed to see you.'

Neville involuntarily took a step backwards.

'You could've just messaged me with your Patronus.'

'I needed you to take the call seriously.'

'So you kidnap my daughter and put her under an enchantment?'

Neville was struggling to keep the panic out of his voice. Harry had snapped. How could he have missed the signs? His demeanour at Luna's funeral had reminded him of the Carrows before they tortured a student. But, of course, Neville had dismissed it as grief, seeing what he wanted to see. And he had stopped seeing his godson. This should have been a clear sign. When Harry was in school, he had shut himself away from his loved ones when he felt like he could hurt them. Now, in adulthood, he was doing the same thing. He wanted to protect Teddy from Death.

Harry wanted to protect Teddy from himself.

Harry had murdered Mundungus Fletcher. Harry had tortured Lazarus. Worst of all, Harry had violated the tomb of Albus Dumbledore, the man who had loved and protected Harry as if he were a grandson. Neville felt sick. How could he have possible missed the signs?

But what was his motive?

Neville had to focus on the matter at hand: ensuring his daughter's safety. Neville drew his wand and pointed it right at Harry's heart. Harry did not so much as glance at it; he merely drummed his fingers on the couch and the wooden smile remained etched on his face.

'Explain your actions,' said Neville. With considerable effort, he managed to control his rising panic and posed the statement as though he and Harry were partners again, and Harry had violated Unit procedure.

'I needed you to come here,' croaked Harry, 'because only you can help me. You see, my time off gave me a lot to think about. I started questioning things. Started wondering who could possibly want to hurt my Luna.' At the pronouncement of her name, Harry's voice faltered and his face betrayed pain for the first time. In the blink of an eye, it was gone, and Harry continued.

'It was clear to me that nobody wanted her dead. So I went over the crime scene, which showed that she wasn't the intended target. You see, _I_ was supposed to be off work and at home that evening. She was supposed to be seeing the Cannons match with Alice and Bill's family. That would've been the information that the killer was working with. He wouldn't have known that, at the last minute, you called me into the field, and that the Cannons' seeker caught the snitch in less than five minutes. He wouldn't have known that she was at home and I wasn't. So I started working the case from the angle that her killer is my enemy.'

'You shouldn't have been working the case at all,' snapped Neville.

'Did you honestly think I'd just sit at home twiddling my thumbs? I started poking around, seeing what I could find. Except I didn't have my usual poking-around companion. My cloak was gone. And then I learn that the Elder Wand was stolen. Luna's killer's motive suddenly became abundantly obvious. It was one of those idiots who thought that they could become "master of Death".' Harry chuckled mirthlessly. '"Master of Death". A stupid fucking meaningless title. A children's story mistranslated. That is why she's dead.'

The cold, emotionless way Harry pronounced this terrified Neville.

'We both know I know this,' said Neville. 'The only missing piece is why you've trapped Alice.'

'But it's all linked,' said Harry, as if explaining something very simple to a child. 'I searched for the Resurrection Stone in the Forest. The centaurs told me that a man in Ministry garb removed it years ago.' Harry laughed again, making the hairs on the back of Neville's neck stand up. 'And then I remembered that I'd actually _told_ Luna's killer where the Stone was.'

Neville leaned forward, frowning.

'It was Bogand,' said Harry, his jaw set. 'Bogand removed the Stone and put it in the one place nobody would think to look: the Unit headquarters. So he has the Stone, he has the cloak, and, if not for pure chance, he would now be in full control of all three Hallows. Which brings us to Alice.

'It was with the greatest regret that I cast the Reverse Fidelius on her, but it really is the only way I can think of getting you to comply with my request.'

'Which is?' snapped Neville.

'I'd like you to get the Stone from the Unit. Bogand knows it's only a matter of time before I suspect him. That's why he's insisting on such a long leave of bereavement: he's depriving me of Unit resources that would have sped up the process. His insistence on sending me to a Mind Healer casts doubt on my sanity. That way he can lean on the Healer to testify to my unfit state if I challenge him through legal means. He'll have set layer upon layer of security around the Unit to ensure that I can't break in.

'Right now, his priority is killing me, thereby winning the Elder Wand. But if he loses the Stone, his focus will shift to getting it back. That gives me time to bring him down without worrying about assassination attempts.

'Neville,' he said, and his voice was now pleading, 'I need you to get my Stone for me. I know he's your boss, I know this could get you fired, but you're the only one I trust. You've – You've been like a brother to me, and I hate asking. But you're my only hope.'

Neville marvelled at Harry's intelligence. Harry was banking on Neville being smart enough to have come to the conclusion that Bogand was Death on his own. And, mere minutes ago, it would have been a safe bet. Neville would have begun devising a plan to steal the Resurrection Stone in an instant, thereby allowing Harry to evolve from Death to master of Death.

But Harry, in kidnapping Alice, thereby ensuring Neville's compliance, had committed a grave error. It allowed Neville to take off his rose-tinted glasses and analyse the situation objectively. It allowed Neville to see the truth.

He admired how clever Harry was being, playing on the fact that Neville had never really had a close friend before Harry. The role reversal, making Harry seem like the trapped one rather than Neville, was a stroke of genius. He had understood Neville and was playing a near-perfect tune. But not perfect enough.

Neville knew he had to retrieve the Stone. This was not because only Harry had the power to bring down the Reverse Fidelius. He also wanted to make sure Harry did not realise that Neville had made the connection between Harry and Death. This way, when Neville had given Harry the Stone, he could set about pursuing his target unnoticed. He could set about pursuing Harry.

'And you will release Alice when I give you the Stone?'

'I swear,' said Harry sincerely.

'Then I'll get it,' said Neville, sighing. He needed to show some reluctance; Harry would be expecting that.

Harry stood up and smiled gratefully. It seemed genuine.

'Thank you, Nev. You wouldn't believe how important this is, how much closer it will get me to avenging her death.'

'Just do me a favour and lift the charm on Alice while I'm gone, will you.'

'Of course,' said Harry, who walked over to the fireplace and took something from the mantelpiece. He thrust into Neville's hand a small cracked stone. Neville frowned for a moment, then comprehension dawned.

'This is a fake I'm to put in the original's place,' he said.

'Right in one,' said Harry. 'I had it made by a goblin years ago, after the first Hallows-related attack on me. It's indistinguishable from the real thing to any eye but a goblin's.' Harry's eyes narrowed as though he had spotted some great danger. 'The goblin also told me how to tell which one's real. When you remove the Stone from the Department, an alarm will sound in Bogand's office, I reckon. But these alarms can't detect intent, only the fact that the Stone's been removed –'

'So I swap the Stones and make myself scarce,' finished Neville.

'Not quite,' said Harry. 'You put the real Stone away, and keep the fake in your hand. Make out that you're examining it, looking for any sign that it had been tampered with.'

It was Neville's turn to laugh drily. 'And I wait for Bogand to appear and explain what I'm doing.'

'Precisely. That way Bogand won't sound the Ministry-wide alarm and lock you in.'

And of course it would work, thought Neville furiously, since Neville had told Bogand he suspect someone in the Unit. Checking for magical residue on the Stone would be a natural next step in his investigation.

Neville sighed. 'I'll be back soon,' he said, taking the fake Stone.

He turned away. Harry had won this round. Neville would do as he asked. But soon – very soon – Neville would begin hunting Death in earnest.


	11. Resurrexit

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on the characters and world created by JK Rowling. Anything you do not recognise is my own creation. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

– CHAPTER ELEVEN –

 _ **Resurrexit**_

* * *

Silently, victoriously, I appear in the narrow road I know so well. Tudor cottages, magpie-like in their design, surround me on either side. Ahead, an orange glow of streetlamps signals the village centre. And beyond lies my love, waiting to rejoin me once more.

Noiselessly, I follow the lane to the left, and the centre of Godric's Hollow is revealed to me. I am home. The last rays of the day's sun peak over the chimneyed horizon, and the remaining villagers scurry across the square, eager to return home. I see Tom the postman closing up the little red post office. Andrew the greengrocer exchanges pleasantries with Cheryl and Richard, my neighbours, in his animated, amiable way. The reverend walks solemnly across the square, ever in funeral march.

I follow the reverend's path back to the church, which itself is not much larger than the cottages I leave behind. Cheryl and Richard, now finished with their conversation, look straight at me. No, they look _through_ me.

I am the only wizard in the world that is completely invisible. I am the only one that is completely protected.

In one hand, I hold the Elder Wand. It is not as comfortable as my holly, but I will need it tonight. In my other hand, I have the Resurrection Stone. I trace my thumb over the etched mark of the Deathly Hallows; it soothes me. Surrounding me is the Cloak of Invisibility, my birth right.

I am, for the final time, master of Death.

When I last held the Stone, intent on using it, I was seeking death. Now I seek life. I know that this will work. I can feel it. She will not be a shadow, like my parents were in the forest. This time I have all three Hallows in my immediate control. I know that they will work as they were meant to.

I pass by the statue of my parents and can't help but to glance up at them. They smile down at me, approving and reassuring.

I am older than James had been when he died, but I still think of him as a father figure. I know that he would support me if he were alive. If he had survived that Halloween night and my mother hadn't, he would not rest until he killed her murderer and brought her back. He would have been brave enough to do what is right rather than what is easy. He was a true Gryffindor, like me.

I tear my eyes away from my parents and make my way to the kissing gate guarding the graveyard. The Elder Wand trembles in my hand.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

My heart pounds with every step. Weeks of planning, weeks of hunting, weeks of relentless focus have led me here, to this point, opening the gate, and entering the graveyard where my sleeping Luna lies.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I glide past grave after grave. Each is familiar. Abbot, Selwin, Bones, Peverell, Dumbledore. I stop at none. I have but one goal.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I am at her grave.

 _Luna Potter, born 26 September 1980, died 26 July 2007_

 _Friendship and equality to all._

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I stare at the slab of marble, at my wife's tombstone. I am so close to seeing her again. I close my eyes and imagine her face. It is a little hazy, but I can see her dirty blonde hair and wide, protuberant eyes. She is grateful. She is happy that I have released her from her tomb. I smile.

This is it.

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

I turn the Stone over once, twice, three times. My eyes open.

She is not there.

I try once more. Nothing.

The pounding of my heart spreads like a disease until my entire body is a beating drum. It did not work.

'NO!'

She should be here! I fall to my knees. How had it not worked? This is pain, pain beyond anything I have ever felt. My head is in a vice-like grip, the Elder Wand and Resurrection Stone slip from my hands, and I am pounding the ground with my fists.

How could she do this to me? How could she leave me like this?

I close my eyes and try to picture her face. It is a blur. I cannot remember the colour of her eyes, or the smell of her hair, or how her lips felt against mine. She is gone.

I am on all fours now, and my nose is so close to the ground that the smell of freshly mown grass washes over me. It transports me to lazy days spent lying on the Great Plains watching the clouds roll by. I turn to look at her, but she is not there with me. That part of me is dead, buried below.

I see, through the blur of my pain, a glimmer of gold. I dig like a dog and unearth the ring I had buried weeks ago. This ring once lived on her finger; it was pressed against her skin all day long. It is proof that she lived once, and it is the closest thing I have to her.

I take some deep, panting breaths.

'I made … the Unbreakable Vow,' I rasp, staring at my gleaming reflection in the ring. 'I won't rest. I'll … I'll find out why this didn't work. I'll find another way. I'll do it …'

I look at the Stone, that treacherous gem. Bogand did something to break its power, and I will find out what. I will take him to the verge of death and back, if that's what is necessary, but I will have answers. He may have taken her from life, but he will not prevent me from rescuing her from death.

I have been holding back, hiding the hunt, but no longer. I will use all my power and all my training to bring Luna back. And if anyone gets in my way, whoever they are, I will destroy them.

I take the ring and force it onto my index finger. It digs in so hard that I draw blood. My finger throbs, but I do not care. This is my punishment for failure. The ring will serve as a reminder: I won't fail twice.

'Harry?'

In one swift movement, I dive for the Elder Wand, roll behind a headstone and disarm my opponent. I catch their wand and feel a twitch of familiarity. It is Hermione's wand. I look up and see Hermione, whose face mirrors my surprise.

'H – Harry, take off the cloak so I can see you.'

Her voice is shaky and child-like. The rest of her paints a very different picture: her hair is tied up in a bun like McGonagall's, her lips are pursed and she is wearing a conservative blazer-skirt combination. I rise to my feet and accede to her request.

'Hermione …'

I have so many questions, I do not know where to start.

'Give me my wand back, Harry.'

My hairs bristle. There is coldness in her voice that I have never heard before. Did she believe the _Daily Prophet_ 's lies? I chuck her wand and she catches it deftly.

'Harry, what are you doing here?' Her voice is a little softer, but it keeps an edge.

'I could ask you the same question.'

'I've been looking everywhere for you, this was my last resort.'

Hermione takes a step closer. Her eyes roam over Luna's grave before moving on to the Stone, which lies glinting at the base of the headstone, and then back to the grave again. Her eyes narrow; I can practically see the cogs turning.

'Oh, Harry, you didn't …'

Her disapproval battles with pity, and it looks as though pity will win out. I am ready to throw her pity back in her face when a thought strikes me. This is Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of our age. Despite all my training, I remain terrible at any form of academic research, and academic research is exactly what I will need to do if I am to find another way of waking Luna up.

'Yeah, I did, so what?' I say, with the right mix of regret and defiance.

'Oh, Harry …'

To my immense surprise, Hermione throws herself at me. I recoil at the sudden contact at first, but can't help but relax into it. I realise that I have missed her; everything from that bushy hair, which even in a bun looks ready to break free, to the faint musk of ancient books that follows her around. She releases me.

'Don't you remember the forest? The Stone doesn't bring people back – they're just memories. Remember what Dumbledore told you? No spell can reawaken the dead.'

'I just – I just want to see her again, Hermione, for one last time. Is that so wrong?'

She lays a hand on my shoulder. 'No, of course not …'

'I thought that this time, with all the Hallows under my control, that I could bring her back for real. But … it didn't work.'

'But of course it didn't work!' says Hermione, exasperated. 'Harry, didn't Voldemort teach you anything?' My hands become fists, but I show no other sign that she has hit a nerve. 'When you used the Stone in the Forest, you weren't using it for its true purpose, you were using it for protection. You wanted your loved ones around you to give you the strength to face death, so the Stone worked –'

'Are you saying that I'm being selfish now?' I snap.

'No, no, of course not! What I mean is that you were master of Death because you didn't fear it: you were facing it openly. But now you're doing the exact opposite, so it makes sense that the Stone won't work, doesn't it?' I consider her words carefully. She may have a point: the Stone alone may not be enough. It would, after all, bring back something no better than a memory, even if I am master of Death. What I need is a fool-proof solution, and that might take magic beyond the Stone.

'Harry, how did you even get the Stone back?'

'I took it from the Department of Mysteries,' I say coolly.

Hermione takes a step back and, for a moment, is uncharacteristically flustered.

'You _took_ … Didn't you say they made it impregnable after our little stunt there at school? How did you –'

'It's irrelevant, all that matters is that I took it. So what? It's mine, isn't it? What right do they have to keep it from me?'

Hermione bites her lip in that anxious way of hers. We may as well be at Hogwarts, with her trying to talk me out of some hare-brained scheme. The only thing missing is Ron, caught between us but always erring on the side of adventure. I get the feeling that she is thinking the same thing, for she gives the briefest of sad smiles.

'Harry,' she says carefully, 'I know that you've lost so much more than the rest of us, but you've never tried anything like this before.' She takes my hand, it is surprisingly warm, or perhaps mine are cold. 'I'm – I'm worried for you.'

'Don't be,' I say, and wrench my hands from her grip.

I turn away. Didn't she understand? Everyone else – my parents, Sirius, Dumbledore, Remus – they had all died for something. Their deaths were important; to try and bring them back would have been wrong. But Luna died for nothing. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I hear Hermione's breath quicken behind me. When I turn back around, I am surprised to find that her eyes are full of tears.

'What's wrong?'

'Harry, I'm so sorry!'

'For what?' I say, bewildered.

'What kind of friend am I? I should have been there for you, like you were for me. I just – I just had to get away from him. I couldn't bear to see what was happening to him, I just couldn't!'

I sigh. The ballad of Ron and Hermione. Just what I need.

'It's ok, Hermione, I didn't need any help. I'm fine.'

'How can you say that? Look at you, look at where we are. This isn't like you! If I had been less selfish, if I had stayed in the country, it wouldn't be like this …'

I awkwardly pat Hermione on the shoulder. This is not how I had expected this to go.

'It's alright,' I mutter. To my surprise, Hermione laughs through the tears.

'You were never the best at this kind of thing.'

'You never said a truer word.'

'Harry, please forgive me for running away,' she pleads. I am relieved to see that her sobs are subsiding.

'You didn't run –'

'Yes, I did, and I'm coming to terms with that. I just need –'

'I forgive you,' I say, a little impatient. I am beginning to tire of her self-centred self-loathing. We have more important things to discuss.

Hermione throws a sad gaze at Luna's grave, and I understand why. Her last conversation with Luna had been a fight. From what I gathered (neither witch had been forthcoming), Hermione had accused Luna of making our house 'unhealthy' for some reason. Luna had not taken kindly to this, and they had not spoken since.

'Hermione,' I say, 'her death was illegitimate. She shouldn't have died. It should have been me.' Hermione looks ready to interrupt but I press on. 'I need her … she completes me.'

'There is no way –'

'There is! I know there is! You feel guilty about abandoning me? Fine, here's how you redeem yourself. I need you to help me find a way to wake her up –'

' _Wake her up_ –' begins Hermione, wide-eyed and incredulous.

'Yes, wake her up. I know you don't believe in magic unless there's evidence for it, but I can't believe that in the thousands of years of wizarding existence, not one wizard has found a way to cure death.'

'The only record of magic that reverses death are in stories, or else are unsubstantiated rumour –'

'Then we'll just have to chase them up. Remember the last "unsubstantiated rumour" we chased, and how adamant you were that they didn't exist?' I point to the Hallows, which lie scattered around Luna's grave. 'If I didn't believe in them, Voldemort never would've been defeated.'

Hermione follows my outstretched hand and casts her eyes on the Hallows. She is clearly utterly unconvinced, but I know from experience that guilt works in mysterious ways, ways that will favour me, for once.

'Harry, if I'm to help you,' she says softly, refusing to look at me, 'then you need to promise me two things. Firstly, I want you to keep seeing that Mind Healer of yours –'

'Done.'

'I'm serious. If it turns out that you're not seeing him anymore, then I'm out. Secondly, I want you to give me your word that, whatever we discover, you won't hurt anyone.'

I frown a little – did she know more than she was letting on?

'How could you –'

'You shouldn't need to question it, Harry. Just promise me … please.'

'I promise I won't hurt anyone …' … who doesn't deserve it.

Hermione looks a little relieved, but the lines of worry on her face do not fade.

'Then, against my better judgement, I'll help you.'

A silence falls between us. Hermione is restless, she is clearly uncertain as to what she has gotten herself into. I need to distract her before she realises what a big mistake she's made.

'So you were looking for me? How come?'

'Let's walk and talk,' says Hermione, shooting another sad look at Luna's grave.

I consider her carefully, then nod. There is nothing else for me to do here, not yet. The next time I am here, I will be back with her. I bend down and collect my Hallows. As I pocket the Elder Wand, I can feel Hermione's gaze. I know that she wants to confront me. I can imagine it: ' _How could you, Harry? How could you break into Dumbledore's tomb?'_ But she doesn't understand. Dumbledore would have understood; he knows how it feels. There are no lengths he would not have gone to in order to right the wrongs that had befallen Ariana.

I straighten up and indicate that we should head towards the kissing gate. As we trudge back, I notice that Hermione keeps a little distance between us. She is afraid; she never did like that which she did not understand. Luna was right about that, at least.

'After our last conversation,' says Hermione finally, 'I made some enquiries. But, as you predicted, the Ministry officials I spoke to were not particularly helpful.'

'So you did a little digging yourself?' I say, opening the kissing gate.

'Yes.'

The village square is now deserted. I lead Hermione to one of the wooden benches at the foot of my parents' statue. It sits in the orange glow of a streetlamp. It is a good location: with the statue behind us, we cannot be sneaked up on, and the light will illuminate any who approach.

'So what did you find out?' I ask.

Hermione brings her index finger to her lip in a sub-conscious self-shushing gesture. I lay a reassuring hand on her knee, and she seems to relax a little.

'During the preparation for war with Grindelwald,' she says, 'the Ministry had every wizarding family register their home with the Ministry. They had to provide their address, names of residents and details of wards around the residence. That way, if the Ministry found Grindelwald's spies, the Aurors could hunt them down quickly and efficiently. It's one of those laws that would never have passed in peacetime, but seemed necessary with war approaching.'

'Let me guess,' I say, 'they "forgot" to repeal the law after the war.'

'Yes, that's right,' says Hermione, failing to hide her surprise at my perspicacity. 'In the euphoria of victory, the Ministry managed to sweep that law under the carpet.

'Your grandfather registered Godric's Hollow and all of its many wards. Without detailed information about those wards, it would have taken a team of curse-breakers, or a wizard as skilful as Dumbledore, to break in without your express permission.'

'And we know it wasn't a team of wizards, and nobody alive is as good as Dumbledore,' I say.

'Exactly. So I decided that whoever brought down the wards around your house had to have access to the register of homes. It took a little more digging to find out who exactly has access to the register …' She trails off and bites her lip anxiously.

I give her knee a gentle squeeze. 'And?'

'It's not entirely clear, but almost all the sources suggest that only Head of Departments and the Minister himself now have access to the register.'

Hermione studies my face, searching for the inevitable angry reaction, but I do not give it to her. She has only confirmed what I already know. Bogand headed the Department of Mysteries. Of course he had access to the wards around our house.

And yet … it would be prudent to check; after all, I don't want to neutralise the wrong man. This register gives me an opportunity to be completely certain that Bogand is the killer. I knew Hermione would come in handy.

'Thanks, Hermione.'

'You're … welcome. Harry, are you sure you're ok? I just told you that someone in the Ministry –'

'I know what you told me.'

I stand up and beckon a bewildered Hermione to do the same.

'You shouldn't bottle up your emotions like this, Harry, it's unhealthy. It's ok to be angry – I'd be furious if it were me …'

'When I'm angry, we both know that I don't think straight.' I offer her my arm which, haltingly, she takes. 'And I need all my wits about me if we're to bring Luna back. Now, here's something you probably never thought I'd say: let's go to a library.'


	12. The Final Appointment

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on the characters and world created by JK Rowling. Anything you do not recognise is my own creation. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

– CHAPTER TWELVE –

 _ **The Final Appointment**_

* * *

The chimes of the old grandfather clock momentarily drown the rustle of old parchment. Six chimes – six o'clock. We have been in this stuffy old library for six hours. Two hours more than yesterday, and three more than the day before. It feels like Hermione and I have spent most of the past few weeks holed up in ancient Ministry libraries. When asked, we tell nosy passers-by that we are researching alcoholism cures for our poor friend.

Well, _I_ tell them; Hermione cannot pull off that lie. It is too close to home.

I peer down at the page before me. It describes the magic behind Inferi; not directly useful, but there is a vague possibility that we can use parts of it. Annoyingly, the author felt the instructions best suited to the medium of poetry.

 _Powerful intent must belie,_

 _The creation of the Inferi._

Who am I kidding? If the magic was derived from Inferi, Dumbledore would have used it to raise Ariana years ago.

The more I stare at the page, the blurrier the words become. I sigh. The high, domed ceiling above performs its natural, acoustic duties and echoes my sigh. Soon, the dimly lit library is alive with the sound of my mutiny. I attract a withering look from a grizzled old warlock two tables down.

I glance up at Hermione, expecting a reproach, but she is engrossed by _Forgotten Magicks._ I toss the Inferi instructions aside and lethargically pick up _Taboo_. My desire to help Luna burns so fiercely that it hurts, but I cannot concentrate on these dry, academic texts for more than ten minutes.

Hermione, however, is another matter. She can sit for hours without moving a muscle. I wonder if she would even remember to eat if I were not here; catering duties have been my main contribution. I would happily leave the desk research in her hands but for that small voice in my head: s _he does not want Luna to return._

I have tried to ward that thought away, but it only returns stronger than ever. Each day of futile searching feeds it, like fear to a Dementor. Try as I might, I can't shake the feeling that she is merely using the research as a way to keep an eye on me. I had expected one of us to find a solid lead by now, but the best we have produced is some mumbo-jumbo about wizards trying Necromancy and falling foul of ancient curses, and detailed guides on how to make a Horcrux.

I am distracted from my seditious thoughts by a small gasp. I look up so quickly that my neck cricks. Rubbing it, I say, 'What is it Hermione?'

My question echoes around the hall, drawing a harrumph from the warlock. Startled, Hermione tosses aside a battered journal in a vain attempt at nonchalance. A mushroom cloud of dust rises as the journal lands with dull _thump_.

'It's nothing,' whispers Hermione, busying herself by fanning away the airborne dust, 'just a _horrible_ article about how Voldemort's downfall was one of the great historical tragedies. The usual bigoted nonsense.'

I study Hermione carefully. She is biting her bottom lip and not quite meeting my gaze. She never was good at lying to me.

'Hermione,' I say, with a measured calmness, 'what's really in the journal?'

'I just told you.'

I reach for the journal when a particularly gusty draught sweeps past the table, taking with it the journal and a tornado of dust. I glare at Hermione, but her wand is nowhere to be seen. Accidental magic. My interest in the journal doubles: what could have possible made Hermione so scared?

With a quick jab of my wand, the journal flies through the lingering curtain of dust and into my free hand. I ignore Hermione's look of equal fear and outrage and study the front cover. It is a copy of _Transfiguration Today._ I leaf through it until I come to the page I had briefly glimpsed moments before. The first article seems to be a discussion about whether Gamp had been right.

'Harry, how did you do that?' said Hermione in a strained whisper.

'Do what?' I say, not taking my eyes off the page.

'Choose the right page first time.'

'Dumb luck, I guess.'

'Are you … are you a Legilimens?'

I glance up and frown. She is now studying me. Out of habit, I may have used some weak Legilimency over the past few weeks, but nothing detectable. And certainly not on this occasion.

'I'm a lousy Occlumens, what makes you think I'd be any better at Legilimency?'

'You're avoiding my question.'

'And you're trying to distract me.'

I shift my gaze back to the journal and find the other article. Hermione is saying something, but I can no longer hear her.

 _ **A STUDY OF DEATH**_

 _Emeric Switch goes in search of the dangerous wizards who experiment with life and death_

In the centre of the article is a photo of an ancient man, stooped and leaning heavily on a wooden cane. His liver-spotted, shaved head gleams in the desert sun. His face is so heavily lined it is difficult to discern its features. The caption below the articles names him as _Shakhs Khaled_ , a three hundred and twenty year-old warlock.

My hands tremble slightly as I begin reading the article.

 _Shakhs Khaled is not the easiest man to find, nor is he the friendliest. Before I announce myself as a reporter, he hits me with a nasty bed-wetting curse. But this is a small price to pay to meet the man the Arab wizarding community has dubbed '_ The Immortal'.

 _We meet deep in the Yemeni mountains. It was a three hour trek from Sana'a: Shakhs Khaled is petrified that the Yemeni Ministry will hunt him down._

I skim over the remainder of the article in which Emeric Switch is being rather self-congratulatory. I focus instead on the surly old wizard trying to hobble out of the photo. He is three hundred and twenty years old and, according to the article, does not own a Philosopher's Stone. If he has unlocked the secret of warding off death, perhaps he could provide clues on how to reverse it. Even if he does not, I could persuade him to help me figure it out. After all, a three hundred and twenty year-old man is bound to have dead loved ones.

A waving hand suddenly appears in front of my face.

'Harry, I know what you're thinking.'

Hermione tries to snatch the magazine away, but only succeeds in ripping part of the article. The magazine struggles out of my grip and rises higher and higher towards the domed ceiling. Then the air is rent by a blood-curdling scream. I look at Hermione and she looks back, and we both know what the other is thinking. The last time I heard that scream was that day … the Battle of Hogwarts.

I get up, not wanting to be caught by the fastidious old bat that runs the library. The echo amplifies the Caterwauling Charm and tears at every nerve in my body. Judging by Hermione's frozen silence, it is making her relive something we have all tried to forget.

I grab her hand and dive between the narrow bookshelves to our left. A distant glow promises an end to the library and I follow it. The passageway seems to move in on us the closer we get to the exit. The screams follow us like a reproving wave.

Finally, we come to an old oak door. With some effort, I wrench it open, squeeze through it with Hermione and slam it shut. The screams immediately stop. All that is left is the ringing in my ears.

I pace around, exhilarated. Our untimely exit from the Ptolemy Library marks the end of our library research. I have a name: Shakhs Khaled.

Hermione's voice comes from behind me. It is shaky, but measured and determined. 'I've read about this Shakhs Khaled. He's sick, Harry. They say he slaughters babies to use in his experiments. There's a reason why he's a wanted man.'

'I'm not going to help him kill children, Hermione,' I say, holding her hand reassuringly, 'I just want his professional opinion –'

'– _professional –'_

'– on whether waking the dead is possible. Look, we've been stuck in libraries for ages now and we know less than when we started. If it turns out it's impossible, then we're both wasting our time. Wouldn't you prefer to get back to your normal life?'

'Of course I would, but _obviously_ he's going to believe it's possible. But it's not, Harry!'

'It is –'

'No, it's not,' says Hermione, pulling her hand from my grip. 'We can extend our lives by slowing the degeneration of our cells, magic can do that. But once the cells are dead, there is absolutely no way of making them work again. I've read through countless conflicting accounts, but they all agree on that point.'

I smile and put my hand on her shoulder. 'I bet they all agree that surviving the Killing Curse is impossible, too.'

Nothing Hermione says can dampen my growing excitement. Shakhs Khaled will bring me answers. Of course, he will not solve the entire puzzle. If he could do that, he would be famous: _The Man Who Cured Death._ But even Hermione cannot deny that he will get me closer. That is the real reason why she does not want me to meet him.

Hermione briskly shrugs my hand off and says, 'You survived the Killing Curse because of ancient magic that people like Dumbledore only found in retrospect.'

'So you admit there's magic we don't know about,' I say, turning my back to her.

Hermione catches my shoulder and spins me around with surprising force. Her face is etched with concern and the beginnings of panic. She takes a breath and seems to compose herself.

'We can't go to Yemen. Just getting access to a Portkey or clearance to Apparate there will take weeks!'

'Unless you happen to be a Ministry of Magic ambassador.'

'Oh no, Harry. I've abused my position in the Ministry far too many times already.'

In my irritation, I cast my eyes to the heavens. Emerging from the blue ceiling, as if from an ocean, are ornate, marble sculptures. Directly above me, with his long beard seeking the floor, is Merlin, his staff raised. He seems to wink at me.

'Look, Hermione,' I say quietly. 'I'm not saying we should go marching into Yemen just like that. I've got an appointment with Sayer later, and I thought I might go and visit Teddy. It's been ages since I last saw him.

'I know you're worried about me, but you don't need to be. I just want to get some closure, and this Shakhs Khaled guy can give me that.'

Hermione looks at me for a long moment, her eyes shimmering. Finally, she says, 'I understand that, but this guy is _evil_. What will people say if they found out you went to see him?'

I give her a sly grin. 'I fully intend for people to find out I've seen him.'

' _What?'_

'I'm not just going there to get his opinion. I'll do the Yemeni Ministry a favour and haul him in for questioning.'

The edges of Hermione's mouth twitch, betraying a hint of relief. 'If you go to Yemen, and that's a big if, you should involve the British and Yemeni Ministries. The notion of a foreign national doing Auror work is a bit of a legal quagmire.'

'No Aurors,' I say firmly. The last thing I want is for that piece-of-shit Bogand to get wind of what I am doing.

'But –'

'No Aurors. We can involve them retrospectively, once I've brought him into custody'

'You'll never trust the Ministry, will you?' says Hermione, but her voice is softer.

'Never,' I say with a smile. 'So you'll get us a Portkey?'

'Us?'

'Don't you want to come with me?'

'I thought – yes, of course I do. Look, there's no way we'll find him ourselves; we don't know the country and we're not trained Aurors. I know an Auror in the Yemeni Ministry from a, uh, conference.' Hermione's cheeks redden in a way that suggests there was minimal conferencing. 'He knows a fair bit about Shakhs Khaled, and he'd be willing to keep things quiet for a while. Let me get in touch with him and we can go from there.'

'That's great, Hermione. I'll go visit Teddy and have my appointment. We can meet back at yours and make the preparations. How does that sound?'

'It sounds suspiciously like a plan,' says Hermione. She smiles ruefully at her reference to our failed attempts at planning during our school years.

'I will have order,' I say in a passable imitation of Umbridge.

For the first time in fifteen years, I hear Hermione's laugh. It is a nice sound, like a song from childhood.

She gives me a brief hug and Disapparates. I follow suit and land on the top step of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. There are no longer any wards, but old habits die hard.

The door swings open and I step over the threshold. I try to be careful, but a floorboard creaks and –

'FILTHY HALF-BREEDS, MUDBLOODS AND BLOOD TRAITORS! PLAGUE TO THE NOBLE HOUSE OF BLACK!'

I roll my eyes and jab my wand at the portrait of Mrs Black. The curtains slam shut and her screeching is muffled.

'Harry, what a lovely surprise.'

Andromeda, haughty and beautiful, emerges from the drawing room. Her eyes are red and blotchy. She is not quite as composed as normal. I wonder what has happened for a moment before it hits me. She must be mourning her sister's death: after all, Narcissa and Andromeda had reconnected after the war.

I stride forward and take her hands in mine. It is a gesture I picked up in the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts.

'I'm sorry for your loss,' I say. Empty words. We both know it, but Andromeda nods graciously.

'Please, come through,' she says, gesturing for me to enter the drawing room first. Pure-bloods and their traditions. How Luna and I used to laugh at their strange ways.

The war council glamour of number twelve's drawing room has long since disappeared. The dining table has been replaced by two elegant chintz couches separated by a mahogany coffee table. I take a seat on one and Andromeda rests on the other.

'Kreacher,' calls Andromeda.

The ancient house elf appears with a soft pop. He catches sight of me and bows so low that his nose touches the carpet. 'Will Master be wanting the herbal tea to which he is so partial?'

'Water will be just fine, thanks,' I say.

'If Master permits Kreacher to say, he is looking very unwell. Perhaps he needs his Kreacher to nurse him back to health?'

I muster a false smile for the elf. 'That's very kind of you, Kreacher, but I'll be fine.'

Kreacher gives another low bow, but mutters quite audible, 'Kreacher is worried that Master is not adjusting well to life after Miss Luna's death. Yes, very worried. And young Master Theodore worries too ...'

'You're dismissed,' snaps Andromeda, and Kreacher disappears as suddenly as he arrived.

'Is Teddy around, then?'

'He is, but I want to talk to you first.'

Kreacher returns with a glass of water, bows and Disapparates.

'My nephew came by some weeks ago. You would not believe the stories he told me.'

'Draco is quite the story-teller.'

'Quite. But these tales ring true. He tells me that you attacked him in a bar.'

'He told you that?' I say. I'm impressed that Malfoy broke through my Memory Charm, but he was always an accomplished Occlumens. However, I highly doubt Malfoy would freely admit to me besting him.

'He was not forthcoming, but I can be persuasive. He tells me that he does not believe the suicide story the Ministry came up with. He says that the wards around the Manor were triggered on the day of their death.'

'Does he know who triggered them?'

'Yes … it was you.'

I take a sip of water, careful not to break eye contact with Andromeda.

'I was there on Ministry business,' I say.

'You are on compassionate leave.'

I lean forward and take Andromeda's hands in mine; they are cold and veiny.

'Think of what you're accusing me of,' I say gently. 'Do you really think that _I_ would kill the Malfoys?'

'You always hated them,' says Andromeda, but her tone is a little more uncertain and a little less accusatory.

'I never liked them,' I agree, 'but why on earth would I murder them? If I wanted to punish them for what they did in the war, wouldn't I have let the Ministry send them to Azkaban? But I didn't think they deserved it then, and I don't now.'

Andromeda sighs in relief. 'I'm sorry to accuse you, Harry, dear, but … I had to know.'

'I know what it's like,' I say, releasing her hands, 'it's so much easier when there's someone to blame.'

'I'll … I'll call Theodore down.'

'No need,' I say, getting to my feet, 'I'll go to him. I assume he's in his room?'

Andromeda nods and gestures to the door, the sign that I have permission to roam the house.

The lamp-lit hallway seems longer than I remember. It has only been a couple of months since I last visited, hand-in-hand with Luna, but it feels like a lifetime ago. As I climb up the staircase that was once lined with house-elf heads, I am attacked by a sea of memories: screaming at Ron and Hermione in my fifth year; spending those last, precious days with Sirius; and feeling utterly alone in my quest to find Slytherin's locket. Strangely, these memories do not make me _feel_ : they are discordant and hazy. Things that were once everything are now nothing.

I come to Teddy's room, whose previous tenants include Hermione and Ginny, and knock. The old oak door is adorned with glittering golden letters that dart this way and that, refusing to stay still even for a second, very much like the room's owner.

'Come in,' calls Teddy.

Briefly, the letters read _Theodore_. I walk in and am met by the welcome sight of the warm, orange glow of Chudley Cannon posters. More welcome is my godson with his messy black hair and disconcertingly green eyes.

'Uncle Harry!'

For a second, Teddy looks as though he cannot believe his eyes. Then he runs and jumps into my arms.

'How are you, Teddy?' I say, mussing his hair fondly.

'Come see what I can do!' says Teddy, brushing my question aside. He leads me over to his four-poster bed and gestures for me to sit. With barely-contained excitement, Teddy squints in concentration and the replica snitch on his desk shoots across the room and bounces off the far wall.

'Pretty cool, right?' says Teddy eagerly.

'That's … quite extraordinary magic,' I say, and it is the truth; conscious underage magic is a rare talent.

Teddy preens at the compliment. 'Grandma says it's not right to use magic like that,' he says, and his expression clearly suggests that Andromeda is simply ignorant of such matters.

'Many witches and wizards think it's wrong to knowingly use magic without a wand.'

Teddy sits next to me on the bed and I put my arm around his shoulder. 'But you don't think it's wrong, Uncle Harry?'

Teddy stares up at me and it is as though I am addressing myself aged ten. There are things he needs to know; things I wish Dumbledore had told me. 'Intent is everything, Teddy.'

'What's that mean?'

I looks into those brilliant green eyes and say, 'Magic's only wrong if you intend to do harm. The ends justify the means, Teddy. Sometimes, when you're chasing after something that's right, you have to do things that are wrong.'

Teddy considers this for a moment, his head tilted to one side, then he says, 'Come and see what I can do on my broom.'

I allow him to lead me out of his room: he might understand one day, but today he is a child, and children should be children.

* * *

I slip into the office and glance at the old grandfather clock: half an hour late. Sayer is sitting in his usual place, a crease between his eyebrows. His eyes are blood-shot and there are dark circles under them. I collapse into the couch.

'Sorry I'm late,' I mutter, feebly attempting to sound convincing.

Sayer readjusts his glasses and says, 'We need to address your lateness, Harry. If you're not arriving late, you're storming out early.'

'I was only late because I was with Teddy,' I say truthfully, 'you know, like you told me to last time.'

'Admirable as that is, you had the whole week to see him. We meet only an hour a week.'

'I apologise, okay,' I say impatiently. If Sayer thinks he can chide me like I am back at Hogwarts, he's got another thing coming.

Sayer stays silent for a long while; I imagine he is weighing up whether it is worth the fight. Eventually, he says, 'How did seeing Theodore make you feel?'

'Good.'

Sayer closes his eyes for moment; when they reopen, he is composed. 'Let's try a different tact –'

'I'm not going into that bloody Pensieve again.'

'That wasn't my intention,' says Sayer, betraying a hint of impatience. 'Let's talk about your first meeting with your wife.'

I eye him suspiciously: what does this have to do with Teddy? I deem the question to be harmless and answer honestly.

'It was on the Hogwarts Express in my fifth year. Ron and Hermione were prefects, so I didn't really have anyone else to sit with. I wasn't in the mood to sit with people who believed the Ministry's lies –' The faded scar on the back of my hand prickles, 'so I sat in a compartment Luna happened to be in.'

'What were your first impressions of her?'

I smile as I remember the upside-down _Quibbler_ , the radish earrings and the wand tucked behind her ear. 'I thought she was, you know, interesting –'

'What do you mean by interesting?' says Sayer in a tone I consider to be overly sharp.

'You know, she was different, but in a cute way. I had a lot of time for her.'

'Did you,' says Sayer.

'You're in a weird mood today.'

Sayer leans back in his chair and fixes me with a forced smile. 'I understand you were friends for a long while. When did you realise you had feelings for her?'

'After the Battle of Hogwarts … not straight after, though. That's what people assume, but they're wrong.'

'The idea of people thinking that angers you,' says Sayer.

'Wouldn't it make _you_ angry? I loved Ginny; the idea that I'd disrespect her like that is disgusting! I'd planned on travelling alone. I had my bag packed and everything when Luna came round to visit. Said she'd always wanted to see the world and start a career as a Magizoologist and didn't care if it meant skipping her last year at school. I thought she'd be an interesting person to travel with and off we went. I guess my feelings for her grew over time until one day we were in the Great Plains and she nearly got stampeded by a herd of Re'em. The way I felt when I thought they'd got her … that's when I knew I loved her.'

'I see,' says Sayer.

'"I see",' I repeat, 'is that all?'

'Arguably, you saw in your wife an innocent sense of adventure. A life not burdened by destiny and expectation. What do you think she saw in you?'

I rack my brains; it is not, after all, the sort of topic Luna and I discussed. 'I dunno,' I say, 'I guess I could be quite fun when I wasn't being the Chosen One.'

'And yet,' says Sayer, as if weighing every word, 'she will have known that being the wife of Harry Potter was no easy life. She knew that reporters would constantly hound her for as long as she lived. She must have had good reason to endure the reports in the media about her sanity –'

'There was nothing wrong with her sanity,' I say, jabbing my finger in Sayer's direction. 'It was all lies!'

Sayer tilts his head and his mouth thins. 'Even so, you must admit that she must have needed a _very_ good reason to endure that kind of intrusion.'

'It was love! Love doesn't need a reason, Sayer. It's not this rational, scientific thing. You don't sit down, make a pros and cons list and base your feelings on that. Haven't you ever been in love?'

Sayer's pale eyes shimmer behind his glasses. 'Yes … once.'

'Then you must know how ridiculous your question is. I know you're a man of Healing, all facts and evidence, but love is beyond all that!'

Sayer is dumbstruck for a moment but quickly readjusts his glasses. 'After our first session, I gave you some homework: if you could speak to your wife one last time, what would you say? Before you answer, I'd like to try an exercise. I'd like you to close your eyes and focus on your breathing.'

I reluctantly obey, feeling very foolish. Sayer's voice comes out of the darkness, 'Breathe in … hold … and breathe out. Relax your muscles … Clear your mind … Simply focus on your breathing …'

I breathe in and out, and, miraculously, after a few minutes I begin to relax. Sayer's voice comes out of the cocoon of serenity.

'When you feel ready, try and picture your wife's hair … Imagine a paintbrush bringing her to life in front of you … Once you see her hair, think of her face … Start first from her forehead and work down to the chin.'

I try to bring her face to mind. I can vaguely see blonde, straggly hair, but her face is blurry. The more I concentrate on what she looks like, the blurrier the image becomes.

'Can you see her?' asks Sayer.

'Yes,' I lie.

'What are you saying to her?'

'You … were taken from me too soon,' I say. 'It – It should've been me. You didn't deserve to die.'

'Imagine,' says Sayer quietly, 'that she responds by saying that she is happier now … She is at peace.'

'She can't be at peace –'

'You're speaking directly to her, remember …'

My eyes snap open. Sayer is clutching the arm of his chair and his pale eyes are blazing.

'You think she's happier dead?' I bark.

'No,' says Sayer, his voice rising, 'but now that she _is_ gone, she would want you to move on and let her rest. That's what these sessions are about –'

'I _am_ trying to move on,' I say, my own temper flaring.

'You might put on the façade of the grieving husband, but we both know it's an act –'

'I've told you: I'm not trying to find her killer!'

'Liar!' roars Sayer, and he knocks his armchair over in his rush to get to his feet. 'You're trying to bring her back from the dead!'

I jump to my feet and bear down on Sayer until we are nose to nose. He does not flinch or back away. His eyes are alight with fierce fury and his chest heaves.

'You're out of line –'

'I'm not stupid, Harry! You haven't _once_ given any indication that you believe she's beyond your help! You want to bring her back but you _can't_!'

It would be so easy to reach into my robes and pull out my Elder Wand.

'Don't you dare!' snarls Sayer. 'Don't you _dare_ befoul her memory!'

'These sessions are over,' I whisper.

Resisting my twitching hand, I sweep from the office and don't look back.


	13. Rousing Ron

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on the characters and world created by JK Rowling. Anything you do not recognise is my own creation. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

– CHAPTER THIRTEEN –

 _ **Rousing Ron**_

* * *

For the first time in his years working at the Ministry, Neville did not chuck a Sickle into the Fountain of Magical Brethren. Nor did he greet Eric the watchwizard as he walked towards the lift. Nor did he cast a Bubble-Head Charm on himself when he arrived on Level Four. He did not even spare a glance for the giant Chimaera held in a reinforced glass cage just outside his office.

Only one thing mattered: his friend, Harry Potter.

In a few long paces, Neville traversed his magnificent marble office and collapsed into his chair.

His theory that Harry was Death had too many flaws. First and foremost, Harry had not killed Luna. That much he was certain of. The grief was too real, his lust for revenge too potent. Not to mention the fact that he was at work for the twelve hours preceding the murder, and the file clearly stated that the murderer set up the C4 mere moments before the explosion.

So Neville had two choices: rule Harry out as Death, or rule Death out as a suspect.

Perhaps Harry was not Death, thought Neville. True, he was out of his fucking mind taking Alice and Obliviating Bill's family. That very morning, Neville had convinced Bill that he needed to go under the Fidelius for a few weeks with Neville as the Secret Keeper. Neville felt a little guilty having to lie about who had threatened Bill's family, but now that he was sure that Alice was safe with Bill, he could completely focus on the problem at hand: Harry and Death.

Neville's mind whirred as he thought of ways that Harry could not be Death. Taking Alice did not necessarily mean he was Death. Just that he was out of his fucking mind. If he ignored the fact that Harry had used Alice – something that took all of Neville's self-control – then Harry's actions were not entirely irrational.

After all, Harry knew that somebody was after his Hallows. He knew that the Elder Wand was gone, and now his cloak was gone. Harry had a tendency not to trust the Ministry with things that mattered to him; it was only natural that he would retrieve the Resurrection Stone.

Neville sat back so far in his chair that he could see the ceiling reflecting the weather in the fake windows. It was filled with angry grey clouds.

There was only one way to be sure, he decided. He had no choice but to interrogate Lazarus. Only he held the answer. There was no other way.

Boom!

Neville almost fell out of his chair; with one hand, he gripped onto the table mid-fall, and with the other he drew his wand and aimed it at the heart of the intruder. To his surprise, he saw that it was Boris Bogand. For the first time in Neville's memory, Bogand looked dishevelled. His hair, usually slicked back, fell over his face, and his face was puce rather than the usual ghostly white. Behind him, the door had been blown off its hinges.

Shit, thought Neville. He knows.

'Did you really think that I wouldn't find out?' said Bogand, his voice shaking with rage. 'Were you so naive as to think that I wouldn't discover what you've done?'

Neville's heart was racing. How had Bogand found out? The fake Stone Harry had given him was goblin-made, indistinguishable from the real one to the human eye. Bogand himself had not suspected it at the time. But if he had evidence, Neville was well and truly finished.

'What have I done?' said Neville, struggling to sound inquisitive rather than guilty.

Bogand prowled towards Neville, closer and closer, until he was looming over him, more animal than human. His bloodshot eyes bore into Neville, who felt something. It was almost undetectable, but unmistakeably Legilimency. With some effort, Neville cleared his mind. There was nothing to find there now.

Bogand clenched his jaw. His hand went to his pocket, and for a wild moment, Neville thought he was going for his wand. But instead, he pulled out the fake Resurrection Stone and slammed it on the table so hard, Neville thought it would shatter.

'Well?' snarled Bogand. He was so close now that Neville could feel his hot breath when he spoke.

'I think you should treat important artefacts with more respect, sir.'

'We both know that this is a fake, boy!'

'With all due respect, sir, it looks real to me. Perhaps we should get Harry to test it …'

Neville knew he was playing a dangerous game, but to be anything but incredulous would be to admit guilt. He had a suspicion that if Bogand had proof linking Neville to the fake, they would not be having a conversation. Neville would be Obliviated.

'Do not play dumb with me, Longbottom. You come here last night, and just happen to be curious about the Stone. It is, by the way, the first time that somebody other than myself has set the alarm off since it was moved here. And then, the very next day, an expert tells me that this –' He thrust a finger at the Stone, 'is a goblin-made fake. You think that after thirty years in this department, I cannot put two and two together?'

'Look, sir, I'm not going to question whether or not this is a fake – frankly, I would have no way of knowing. All I'm telling you is that I have nothing to do with it. What on earth would I want with the Stone? I am not its true master.'

'Oh!' cried Bogand, looking quite deranged now. 'So you want to pass the blame onto Potter, do you?'

'That wasn't my intention –'

'Well, it might interest you to learn that Potter has not had access to this department since I put him on compassionate leave. Unless you're insinuating that someone acted on his behalf …'

Neville got to his feet, careful not to betray his fear and surprise. He began pacing behind his desk, painfully aware that Bogand was eyeing him like a lion does his prey.

'Let's think this through logically,' said Neville, racking his brains for an alternative explanation.

'Yes, let's. You believe that Potter's wife's killer is after the Deathly Hallows, a reasonable assumption. Their protection comes under our jurisdiction, so you would have them protected – again, reasonable. But then you come to me yesterday and make wild accusations that the killer is among us, which, of course, would jeopardise the Stone. So the logical next step would be to plant a fake and hide the real one, would it not?'

It would, thought Neville. And it was not far from the truth. Neville stopped pacing and looked imploringly at his mentor.

'Please try and look at it reasonably, Boris.' Bogand's eye twitched at the mention of his first name. 'These events would make so much more sense if the killer was one of us! Think about it: the Stone was the only Hallow he was missing, it was only a matter of time before I discovered that –'

For the first time, Bogand was not a wild animal ready to attack, he was reeling in surprise.

'Potter is no longer in possession of the cloak?'

Pressing his advantage, Neville said, 'No, this is what I was trying to tell you. The target has the cloak and the Elder Wand, and he knew that it was a matter of time before I realised that. He knew that I would urge you to put stronger defences around the Stone, so he must have made the switch last night.'

Bogand was silent for a moment, and stared at the Stone, as though asking it what had happened. Neville wished he could read his boss' mind: was he buying it?

'And yet,' said Bogand, slowly, cautiously, 'the wards were only triggered once: by you. If somebody made the switch, for whatever reason, it had to be you. There is no other way.'

'Let me get a positive ID on the killer,' pleaded Neville. 'Lazarus knows; let me prove my theory to you once and for all!'

Bogand's eyes bore into Neville once more, and this time his gaze was cold and steely.

'No. You have allowed this investigation to spiral out of control. You have been reckless and insubordinate.'

'Please don't take me off the case! I'm so close to cracking it, you know I am –'

'Oh, you're not just off the case,' said Bogand quietly. 'I'm putting you on suspension, effective immediately. I will ascertain who this killer is and retrieve the Stone myself. If, upon conclusion, it is clear to me that you are not involved, you may return in a capacity more suited to your … talents. If you are involved …'

Bogand stepped aside, showing Neville the door. Neville was numb. He could see that there was no way of convincing Bogand: his mind had been made up. His legs felt heavy as they carried him to the door. As he crossed the gaping doorway, he found himself not in the black corridor of the Department of Mysteries, but face-to-face with a caged Chimaera.

He was suspended. Disgraced. But the real kicker was that he had now lost all the resources he had had at his disposal. No potions, no special Portkeys, nothing.

Neville's feet led him to the lifts, which lurched into life when he pressed the button for the Atrium. Regardless of his suspension, he had to get to the bottom of this. If Harry was Death … He would need a way to get in to St Mungo's without alerting Bogand. He had an impulsive urge to Apparate there immediately and simply get to Lazarus by force.

But he needed a real plan, and he could not do it alone; Bogand knew his _modus operandi_ too well. He considered Hermione: she was certainly brilliant, but there was no way Neville could persuade her to participate in such a caper. Bill … Neville could not ask him to do something so stupid and dangerous, especially after he had already been attacked by Harry.

That left … Ron. He had been a mess the last time Neville saw him, but perhaps he might regard this as a way to redeem himself. And, after all, if they got caught, was there really a difference between Azkaban and Ron's current living conditions? Yes, thought Neville, Ron would do nicely. He turned on the spot and Disapparated.

Neville gave Ron's front door three swift knocks. It slowly opened, seemingly of its own accord. The stench of rum seeped out from the dark corridor, not quite as strong as it had been the previous day, but still uncomfortable. Carefully, Neville stepped over the threshold.

 _Lumos!_

His wandlight revealed utter devastation: shards of glass lay scattered over the floor, the wooden floorboards were carpeted with stains, and the remains of a fallen chandelier glittered nearby. It looked like the aftermath of an attack. Maybe somebody had gotten to Ron before he had?

'Ron?' he called, not very hopeful. No reply.

 _Homenum Revelio!_

His wand spun in his hand and pointed towards the staircase off to the left. It did not look particularly safe; there were two steps missing and the others were so worn they looked as though Alice's weight would break them, let alone his own. Not for the first time, he wished Snape had passed on the knowledge behind broomless flight.

Gripping on to the banister for support, Neville climbed the stairs one by one. They creaked mutinously, but by some miracle, none collapsed. Once on the landing, his wand directed him through the first doorway to the left: no door, just a doorway.

Beyond was a bedroom that matched the hallway below. The wallpaper was peeling, there was no bed: a battered mattress lay where a bed might have been, and the window was blocked by a wooden door, presumably the one that had once lived in the empty doorframe. Ron was splayed across the floor, surrounded by photos. He was examining one so closely that his long, lank hair completely covered it.

'Ron,' said Neville quietly.

With visible effort, Ron raised his head and peered at Neville through red, blotchy eyes. There was no recognition there.

'Ron,' said Neville, 'it's me.'

And then Ron did something unexpected. He drew his wand and threw what looked like a Stunner at Neville. In his surprise, Neville barely had time to bat it away. Before Ron had another chance to strike, Neville Disarmed him. Neville did not know what was more disheartening: the fact that Ron had tried to attack him, or the ease with which he was overcome.

Ron's shoulders hunched in defeat, and he looked back down at the photo. 'Kill me, then.' It was an order, not a request.

'I'm not here to kill you,' said Neville. He edged closer to Ron, and his nest of photographs, until he could see them quite clearly in the wandlight.

There were pictures of Molly Weasley – both in her prime, surprisingly slender and reminiscent of Ginny, and as Neville remembered her: frumpy, worried, but full of love. He spotted the twins, young and wholesome, faces alight with mischief. There was a photo of Ron and Harry playing exploding snap, with Hermione nose-deep in a book. Neville smiled sadly. The Hermione in the photo shot increasingly annoyed looks at her friends as the game got out of hand. In another photo, Ron had Harry in a headlock and was grinning victoriously at camera. There were many other photos, partly hidden: the Quidditch team in their sixth year, a picture of the entire DA just before Christmas and – Neville's heart somersaulted – Luna and Hannah.

With some effort, Neville tore his eyes from Hannah. He took a deep breath and cleared his mind of the bubbling memories.

'Ron, I'm here to ask for your help.'

Ron looked up at Neville as though Neville had told him that Voldemort had returned.

'My … help?'

'Yes, if you're prepared to give it.'

Ron's eyes narrowed. 'Who are you?'

Neville gaped. True, it had been some years since Ron had seen him sober, but to forget who he was completely?

'It's me, Neville … Neville Longbottom.'

It was Ron's turn to gape. 'Neville?' he whispered. 'But you were … and now you're … is that really you?'

'Yes, Ron, it's really me.' Neville's curiosity got the better of him. 'What – What happened to you, mate?'

'You haven't heard the rumours?' muttered Ron bitterly.

'I have, but I'm not one to believe them.'

Ron's face contorted with grief. The lines were so deep, Neville would not have been surprised if he learned that this was his resting expression.

'We may have won the war,' said Ron quietly, 'but we lost in the end.'

The photo Ron was holding dropped out his hands. Neville crouched down and picked it up. Ginny was wearing a dress of purest gold and, unusually, her flaming red hair fell in loose curls. She made a series of faces up at Neville, who felt a chill run down his spine. She looked so … alive, so unlike the girl who lay in St Mungo's, never to speak again. And this time, Neville was unable to quell the memory of that night …

 _Neville was duelling furiously with Fenrir Greyback. He had lost his footing. The werewolf, sensing victory, sent a purple, sickly-looking curse at Neville. It met a shield that Neville had not erected. He looked up._

 _'You're welcome!' yelled Ron, who sent curse after curse at Greyback._

 _Neville joined him and, for the first time, Neville saw fear in Greyback's eyes._

'Stupefy! _' cried Neville, and his spell struck true, right in the groin._

 _'NOT MY DAUGHTER, YOU BITCH!'_

 _Neville spun around, bewildered, and spotted Molly Weasley throwing off her cloak and running straight at Bellatrix Lestrange. Bellatrix spun on the spot, roaring with laughter at the sight of her new challenger._

 _'OUT OF MY WAY!'_

 _Dumbstruck, Luna, Hermione and Ginny stepped aside, and with a swipe of her wand, Molly Weasley began to duel. Neville was rooted to the spot as Molly Weasley's wand slashed and twirled, and Bellatrix Lestrange's smile became a snarl. Jets of light flew from both wands, and the floor around the witches' feet became hot and cracked: both women were fighting to kill._

 _A few students ran forwards, trying to come to Mrs Weasley's aid, but she rebuffed them. Neville started running towards them: it was_ him, _he had to kill Bellatrix. It was his_ right _._

' _What will happen to your children when I've killed you?' taunted Bellatrix, capering as Mrs Weasley's curses danced around her. 'When Mummy's gone the same way as Freddie?'_

 _'You – will – never – touch –'_

 _Bellatrix's Killing Curse soared beneath Mrs Weasley's outstretched arm and hit her squarely in the chest, directly over her heart._

 _Mrs Weasley's mask of fury froze, and her eyes seemed to bulge: for the tiniest space of time, she knew what had happened, and then she toppled, and silence swept across the Great Hall._

 _'NO!'_

 _Ginny's scream tore through the Great Hall, terrible and wounded. She charged at Bellatrix, her wand held aloft like a sword. Bellatrix laughed again and danced around Ginny's curses with ease._

 _Neville was there, but before he could raise his wand, Bellatrix lassoed hers and Neville, Luna, Hermione, and all the other students who were clamouring to help Ginny were pushed back. The air around the duelling witches crackled. Neville charged again, but was blasted backwards from the glass-like prism. He tried again, and again, and again, but could not break through._

 _And meanwhile, Ginny was ducking and weaving Bellatrix's spells, but her luck was running out._

 _'Miss your mummy, dearie?' cried Bellatrix. She slashed her wand through the air, and her curse hit true._

 _Ginny flew, almost gracefully, through the air and landed practically at the feet of her brother Bill, who was desperately muttering counter-jinxes to Bellatrix's construction._

 _But Ginny was not done. Through a veil of tears, she spluttered,_ 'Avada Kedavra! _'_

 _A feeble jet of green light shot past Bellatrix's ear, and she laughed harder than ever._

 _'Stupid girl, you've got to_ mean _it!_ Crucio! _'_

 _Ginny writhed in pain, Neville threw every counter-jinx he knew at the barrier, and Weasleys were throwing themselves at it, and Harry appeared from the dead, and still Bellatrix held the curse. Longer, and longer._

 _And, finally, Bill brought down the enchantment, and bodies were rushing at Bellatrix, whose smile froze. She locked eyes with Neville, whose heart was thundering against his chest. His Killing Curse struck her neck, and in its cruel light, her face registered fear, and she crumpled to the ground, never to move again._

 _Ginny never recovered._

'Yes, we lost too much,' said Neville, his throat constricted. He placed the photo of Ginny back on the ground. 'But you know what I realised? They – all of them – would want us to live our lives to the fullest. Otherwise they'd have died for nothing …'

'Save it,' said Ron, 'I've heard it all before.'

Neville took one look at Ron and stood up. It was hard to look at him and not be utterly disgusted.

'Look, I'm not here to save you, Ron. I'm here because I need your help. By all means drink your life away when we're done, but I need you sober for the next few days.'

Ron glared up at Neville like a cornered animal. 'You think I'm just some … some drunk?' Neville gestured to the empty bottles of Firewhiskey that lay strewn around the bedroom. 'That … that just helps me to sleep, mate. You don't understand …'

'I don't?'

'You don't know how it feels!'

Neville glowered at the snivelling wretch that was once a war hero.

' _I_ don't know how it feels?' breathed Neville. He was struggling to keep hold of his anger.

'You've never had … you've never lost … you don't know …'

' _My parents were tortured to insanity by Bellatrix Lestrange!_ I can't even remember what they were like! My mum's still in St Mungo's a few beds down from Ginny, who I know you haven't so much as visited since it happened. Did you know that Harry visits every week? Some brother you are.'

'I –'

'My wife was killed by Rodolphus Lestrange a few years ago, but you didn't know anything about that, did you? You weren't at the wedding and you certainly weren't at the funeral. Tell me, do you even remember her name?'

'Of –'

'And Luna was killed a few weeks ago while you've been holed up in here. Harry could have done with his best mate's support, but you were here mourning those who you lost years ago. And you know what? Harry doesn't resent you for it. The rest of us – me, Bill, your father, even Hermione – were there for him, and we couldn't _believe_ that you weren't. But I guess that's you, isn't it? When things get tough for Harry, you're the first one to walk out on him –'

Ron snarled and pounced at Neville, who sidestepped. He watched without pity as Ron crashed into the broken door, which snapped in two and fell away. Moonlight poured into the room from the window, and in it Ron looked quite demented.

'You've thrown everything away,' said Neville. 'You could've had it all! You were the best young Auror recruit of the generation. And she loved you!'

Ron clutched the golden locket around his neck and let out the moan of a wounded dog. 'Stop!'

'Nobody knew why, but Hermione loved you with all of her heart. You threw it away, and for what?'

' _Don't!_ '

'She moved to Australia so she didn't have to see you like this. She wanted to preserve her memory of you – Ron the hero who helped bring down Voldemort. Ron the Gryffindor. She didn't want to see what I see now: a snivelling little coward.'

Ron looked utterly helpless and broken. He was adrift in a sea of wood and glass.

'Did you know that I came here yesterday?' pressed Neville. 'The guy who killed Luna kidnapped my daughter and I wanted your help tracking her down. You were too fucking wasted to regain consciousness.'

Ron's mouth kept opening and closing gormlessly. Neville sighed and turned away. It looked as though he would have to break into St Mungo's without Ron's help.

He was halfway to the door when Ron cried, 'Wait!'

Neville turned back to him. There was a look of confusion etched across Ron's face.

'Your daughter's still missing?'

'No, I found her, and I've hidden her now.'

'Why do you need my help?'

'I'm hunting Luna's killer.'

'Why?' said Ron. 'You're not an Auror … don't you work in the Department of Mysteries?'

'Yes,' said Neville, 'I'm doing this as a favour to Harry. He's too torn up to do it himself, and he doesn't trust the Ministry to catch the guy.' Ron snorted, and for a fraction of a second, Neville saw the old Ron. 'I'm close to finding her killer. The problem is that the only eye witness is lying in a bed in St Mungo's, and he's heavily guarded by Aurors. I have to get at him, but I need a distraction. And I have to act quickly, or Death will have the eye witness killed.'

Ron paled. 'Death?'

Neville sighed: he had not meant to let that slip. 'Yes, it's my understanding that the killer is someone masquerading as Death. He's after Harry's Hallows, and he's got his hands on two of them already.'

'But … Death? Isn't that just an old witch's tale?'

'Of course it is. It's a Dark Wizard hiding behind the old fairy tale.'

Ron's chapped lips set into a grim line. 'Do you have Polyjuice?' he asked.

'No,' said Neville, 'I've run out, and it takes –'

'A month to brew, I know. D'you reckon a month will be too long? Won't this Death guy have killed the eye witness by then?'

Neville leant down and helped Ron to his feet. Ron swayed momentarily, as though not used to being upright, before steadying himself.

'I bloody hope not.'


	14. The Immortal

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on the characters and world created by JK Rowling. Anything you do not recognise is my own creation. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

– CHAPTER FOURTEEN –

 _ **The Immortal**_

* * *

'Do you think he's coming, Hermione?'

Her response is to tighten her grip on my hand. We are in perhaps the busiest s _oukh_ in Sana'a, and with it the familiar attack on my senses. There is the gold of the sand, the green of vegetables and the rainbow array of bhurkas. Stall keepers lounge back in their make-shift stools with their bare feet by their wares and a rabbit-like pouch of _khat_ bulging in one cheek.

Chaotic beeping from the nearby road threatens to drown the calls of the market traders. They are particularly enthralled by Hermione who, despite her black bhurkha, is clearly an attractive, moneyed European.

'Real gold! Beautiful! Real gold!' cries a small boy barely tall enough to peak over the counter. His slug-like father leers at us from his near-horizontal position.

We slip in and out of the milling tourists. Not too quickly that any watchers would be alarmed, but not so slowly that one of the market boys could ensnare us.

The instructions Hermione received from her Yemeni contact were brief: _Soukh Medina, 5pm, I will find you._

It is 5.07pm.

I spot a small alley through a crevice between two market stalls. It is a cesspit of filth, but, more importantly, is a haven from the angry beating of the sun. I discreetly Scourgify its entrance and lead Hermione there.

'Charming,' says Hermione, screwing up her nose.

'You prefer to be out there?'

Before Hermione can retort, a hand reaches out of thin air and grabs her arse. Hermione jumps a foot in the air. I grab the offending arm and twist; there is a satisfying crunch.

I cancel the attacker's invisibility charm and have my wand pointing at the throat of a man, a local by the look of him. He does not look afraid. This is new.

'Harry, let him go,' says Hermione, before proceeding to fix the stranger's wrist.

I stare at the man for long seconds. He has dark, clever features: hooded eyes, a pointed face and a sharp goatee. Rather than the white, robe-like _thoob_ the local men wear, he is garbed in deep purple wizard's robes.

'You're Mustafa,' I say. He nods, his eyes on my wand. I realise I have used the Elder. Stupid. I remove it from his throat.

Mustafa visibly relaxes, and his fox-like face curves into a smile. 'Many apologies, Harry Potter, I did not mean to be so familiar with your _amour_.' He extends his hand.

'Announce my name to the whole street, why don't you,' I snap. Mustafa's Cheshire Cat grin falters and he drops his outstretched hand.

'Don't mind him,' says Hermione, coming between us. She offers her hand instead, which Mustafa takes delicately, familiarly. He plants a kiss without taking his eyes off Hermione, who reddens slightly.

'It is wonderful to see you again, my dear,' he says.

'Let's go,' I say.

Hermione shares a look with Mustafa that clearly says 'I told you so'. Mustafa merely flashes his wily grin and searches his robes. He pulls out a curved dagger similar to the ones the locals carry around.

'Either that's a Portkey, or this really isn't going to end well for you,' I say.

Mustafa laughs deeply and goes to slap me on the back. He catches himself before he touches me, thinking better of it.

'You did not tell me he was funny, Hermione,' he says.

Hermione shakes her head ruefully. 'Yes, he's a riot.'

Mustafa lays the dagger flat on his palm. 'You're quite right, of course, Harry Potter –'

'Just call him Harry,' interjects Hermione.

'This Portkey will take us to where we need to be.'

The dagger glows blue. With the usual tug on my navel, the alley disappears and we are sent whirling through space.

We land in a furnace.

The air ripples with currents of scorching heat. My skin feels as though it is melting. It is like nothing I have ever experienced; the beads of sweat that form on my face practically evaporate as soon as they form. How do people live here?

I look around, trying to establish where 'here' is. We are high up the side of a steep mountain, in an alcove exposed to the sun. That explains the heat. Far below is a vast valley which glitters with gleaming red sand. The blazing sun makes it impossible to make out much more.

'I should have said it will be hot,' says Mustafa, rather redundantly.

He begins to trace his newly-healed hand along the walls of the alcove, muttering in Arabic. My very basic grasp of the language tells me he is activating some sort of tracking charm, though not one I recognise.

I cast a Cooling Charm on the area and step out into the narrow dirt road. The road winds around the mountain, upwards towards its flat peak many miles above. The valley is surrounded by vast red mountains identical to the one we are on. In the distance, I can see vans careering around the winding roads at break-neck speed.

'Mental,' mutters Hermione from behind me.

She has relieved herself of her Bhurkha in favour of summer robes. She grips the walls of the alcove like a baby to its blanket. I forgot she is afraid of heights.

Mustafa, who has finished his examination, puts his arm around her reassuringly. 'We are quite safe,' he mutters.

Rather than shake him off, as I expect her to, Hermione involuntarily leans into him and nods.

'What's the plan?' I say, swatting away a mosquito. The Cooling Charm is beginning to attract the local wildlife.

Mustafa betrays a flicker of annoyance before turning to me.

'As you know, Shakhs Khaled uses Muggle babies to experiment with.' A flash of primal anger crosses his face. 'The local villages have learned to bring a baby here, to this spot, once a month.'

'Disgusting,' says Hermione. She picks a spider out of her hair and tosses it off the side of the cliff.

'Unforgivable,' spits Mustafa.

'But why don't they fight back?'

'They did, Harry,' sighs Hermione.

'That is right, Hermione,' says Mustafa. 'My research tells me that, in the 1800s, Shakhs Khaled laid waste to a number of villages, leaving only the new-borns he needed for his experiments. The locals tried to fight back, but they were no match for such a wizard.

'After a series of attacks, Shakhs Khaled realised that he was going to run out of babies. He needed to keep the Muggles alive to produce more babies, you see.

'Not only that, but he did not want to alert the Ministry. Even with their Muggle-hating stance, our Ministry could not ignore Muggle-killings on that scale. It was genocide! They would face sanctions from the International Confederation of Wizards, or worse.

'So Shakhs Khaled sent a message to the remaining six villages. Twice a year, they would provide one boy or girl here, in this alcove, or face his wrath …'

'But I've been thinking about that,' says Hermione. Her face scrunches in that way it does when she has found a logical flaw. 'Surely this is a serious breach of the International Statute of Secrecy?'

Mustafa smiles, but there is no mirth in his face. 'It would be,' he says, 'if the local villagers believed it to be magic.'

'What else could it be?' I say.

'Perhaps the first villagers suspected magic, but that was two hundred years ago. They now believe Shakhs Khaled to be a vengeful prophet sent down by God. They have come to believe that their ancestors were in violation of the word of God and they have now been punished by Shakhs Khaled for the rest of time. "Shakhs Khaled" means "the immortal".'

'I still don't understand why the Ministry doesn't do something about it!' says Hermione.

Mustafa laughs hollowly. 'Shakhs Khaled is a wizard of prodigious skill, and the Yemeni Ministry is not so strong as the British Ministry. Many of my bosses believe that the lives of twelve Muggle infants a year is not worth the manhunt it would take to track him down and bring him to justice.'

'So why are you tracking him down in your spare time?' I ask.

Mustafa considers me carefully for a while before replying. 'I am a Muggle-born, like Hermione. I grew up in the village down there.' He points down at the valley, but it is too bright to make anything out. 'When I was a boy, my sister was chosen.'

'Chosen?'

'A culture has developed around Shakhs Khaled,' he says, his hands trembling fists. 'It is considered a great honour to sacrifice one's child to him thus bringing peace and prosperity to the village. My father was all too happy to give my sister up.' He seems to forget that we are here. He begins to pace furiously. 'How my mother begged for her life; how I begged. But no. In our culture, the father's word is law. I vowed that day that I would one day avenge her.'

For the first time, I sense a darkness in Mustafa. Perhaps Hermione does too, as she takes a step back. I study the man I had deemed to be an irritating necessity. Reading between the lines, I would bet my house of rubble that he has since murdered his father. He is clearly hell-bent on revenge. It must have driven him to become an Auror. But one question remains.

'Why have you waited this long to avenge her?' I ask. 'Why do you need us?'

Mustafa stops pacing and takes deep breaths. He appears to regret showing us his darker side.

'I am not so naïve as most,' he says slowly, carefully. 'These mountains are littered with the bones of Muggle-born wizards who have tried to beat him. I cannot kill him alone.'

Hermione's eyes narrow. 'You mean arrest him,' she says.

Mustafa's smile returns, though it is more wooden than winning. 'Of course, my dear. However, we must prepare ourselves for any eventuality.'

Hermione shoots me a look that clearly says 'we can't let him do it'. I completely agree. But not for the same reason. I cannot allow Mustafa, with his head full of steam, to kill Shakhs Khaled before he tells me what I need to know.

'Let's start tracking him,' I say.

Mustafa nods and lays his wand on his palm. He whispers in Arabic and the wand twists and turns like a compass. The tip eventually points up the dirt road, towards the peak.

'Great,' says Hermione.

'Just don't look down,' I suggest.

We make slow, tentative progress. This is partly due to the terrain; the rocky ground is uneven in parts, and in others so weathered that, without magic, we would have slipped back towards the alcove. Hermione is becoming increasingly jittery the further we climb. I try not to be impatient; after all, she has not been through the same training Mustafa and I have.

I let Mustafa deal with Hermione while I consider what I will ask Shakhs Khaled. I am so close to getting the answers I need. I can feel it.

From what Hermione has told me, Shakhs Khaled has been living alone in these mountains for at least two hundred years. He is likely to have lost all sanity. Luckily, I can speak his language.

But what to do with Mustafa and Hermione when we get there. They will be a hindrance, Mustafa especially.

Before I can contemplate a salient plan, we reach the peak. I cannot help but marvel at the view. The valley below is now barely visible below a thin layer of wispy clouds. The clouds form a spectral carpet, punctuated only by the red, jagged peaks of the mountains around us. It is unearthly.

'Wow,' whispers Hermione. Her voice pierces the air like an unwanted intruder.

I cancel my redundant Cooling Charm; the temperature has dropped dramatically. A brisk breeze carries colonies of clouds between our legs.

We are on a small plateau, no larger than a Quidditch pitch. The parts of the ground not covered by clouds are dead flat. The view is interrupted only by a shabby hut made of the same sandstone as the rest of the mountain. It is camouflaged so well that it is barely visible.

'Wands out,' I bark.

I cast a _homenum revelio_ , but it returns nothing. Mustafa moves forward but I hold my arm out to stop him.

'I go in first,' I say. I will not have him ruining this.

I edge closer and cast charms to undo any booby traps Shakhs Khaled has cast. But the hut is oddly unprotected. He seems to rely on his reputation to keep intruders away. Foolish.

I prise the wooden door open. It is stiff, as though it has not been used I years. A blast of heat, sweat and human excrement rushes out to greet us. Hermione coughs behind me. I merely wrinkle my nose and proceed onwards.

 _Lumos,_ I think, and Shakhs Khaled's hovel is illuminated by my wand light.

The hut is not much larger than my old room at the Dursleys. Half of it is taken up by a battered mattress. It is covered by layer upon layer of yellowing stains such that it is impossible to tell what colour it had once been.

There is an old Victorian, metallic bathtub beside the mattress. It is missing two legs and leans precariously over where I presume Shakhs Khaled sleeps. But this is not what draws my attention. The tub is covered in blood. It is as though it has been applied by a child with a brush.

I lean in and touch some of the blood on the side of the tub, ignoring Hermione's cry of 'Harry, don't!' It is warm and viscous. Fresh.

I take a step further into the hut and realise that the floor is sticky. I look down. We are standing in a pool of blood: by the look of it, from the same source as in the tub.

'He is not here … we should go,' says Mustafa.

I am about to agree when I spot something on the mattress. A photo. I reach down and pick it up. A man and woman are standing, arm in arm, outside a straw hut. The man has dark features, not dissimilar to Mustafa, and shoots the camera wicked, mischievous grins. The black woman in his arms is staring at him adoringly, almost slavishly. They are clearly in love. I feel a pang of … something. Envy?

With a jolt, I realise Hermione is tugging at my arm.

'Let's go,' she says. She has seen the photo and, for some reason, looks more terrified than I have ever seen her.

I nod, drop the photo and we return outside. I breathe in a lungful of fresh air.

'I think we should go back to the city and – '

Mustafa and I cut her off with a unified, 'No.'

'The blood was fresh,' I say.

'And there are traces of very recent, dark magic,' says Mustafa. 'We should plan an ambu – '

' _Avada Kedavra!'_

It happens before any of us can react. A jet of green light pierces the clouds and strikes Mustafa square in the chest. The force of the spell blasts the Auror backwards, off the side of the cliff and out of sight.

'NO!' shrieks Hermione.

But there is another jet of green light, this time meant for Hermione. I react instinctively. The clouds around her solidify into a gleaming white cocoon. The spell hits it with a clang and both the curse and shield dissipate.

I dive behind the hut and summon Hermione towards me. A third Killing Curse rushes through the spot she occupied seconds before.

I steal a glance at Hermione. A stream of tears is running down her face, but she is otherwise unhurt.

I grab her wrist and force her to get down. 'Stay here,' I say. She was never an accomplished dueller; I can deal with our attacker easier if I do not have to worry about her safety.

I have my holly wand in my right hand, my Elder in the left.

Time to play.

I roll out from behind the hut and, as I do so, transfigure another white shield with my holly wand and, before the shield fully solidifies, send two speculative Stunners into the white mist.

 _Clang!_

Another Killing Curse hits my shield and it shatters.

I look around, trying to find the attacker. But Shakhs Khaled is nowhere to be seen. Then I notice that the clouds are thicker than they had been when we first came to the plateau.

So that's his game.

I sense, rather than see, another curse heading my way. I drop to the ground with such force, a tremor of pain rushes up my spine.

In a flash, I am back on my feet.

I circle my holly above my head around and around like a great lasso. A tidal wave of gale-force wind rushes out in every direction. Clouds evaporate before it and reveal a stooped figure who is crouched on the opposite side of the hut.

He hesitates for a second. A second is all I need.

I jab my Elder at the wand in his hand. A jet of golden fire strikes it and it explodes in a shower of wood, smoke and gold. Satisfied, I stun him.

'It's safe to come out now,' I call to Hermione.

Hermione approaches slowly. She is looking at me as though seeing me for the first time.

'It's ok,' I say, nodding towards where Shakhs Khaled lies stunned, 'we got him.'

Hermione continues to stare, switching between me and the wand in my left hand. Tears continue to fall down her face unbidden.

'Harry,' she whispers. Her voice is strained. 'That spell … '

I examine her carefully. Does her shock come from seeing a spell that shatters wands, or does she know that 'Death' uses the spell on his so-called victims? I decide to say nothing.

She raises a trembling hand and points at my Elder Wand. 'No spell can do that,' she says.

I sigh. 'Hermione, what will it take for you to stop believing everything you read?'

She shakes her head. I notice that there is still a fair distance between us. She seems afraid to come any closer.

'No,' she says, 'this isn't like the Hallows. _No spell can do that_.'

'No spell is meant to repair wands either,' I say. 'But the Elder Wand managed to repair my holly wand, remember?'

'It's not the same …'

'What does it matt –'

'It matters because it's dark magic!' she says shrilly. 'Really dark magic. And the way you duelled …' She raises her wand at me. I do not move, but I am ready to strike. 'What does Harry Potter hear when a Dementor comes near him?'

'It's me, Hermione.'

'Answer the question!'

'I hear my mother begging Voldemort to spare me,' I say, edging closer to her.

She lowers her wand. 'I'm sorry, Harry, I had to check. But how … where did you learn this magic?'

The lie rolls off my tongue easily. 'Dumbledore. After the war, McGonagall gave me his personal journal. It has all these spells he invented, spells he reckons can only be performed with this wand.'

Hermione nods slowly, but she is still trembling. 'Let's get out of here, Harry. We have to find M – Mustafa's body.'

'We will,' I say. 'But first, I need to get to get the answers I came for.'

I ignore Hermione's remonstrations and take a small vial of Veritaserum from my cloak.

'Harry, is that –'

I silence her with a hand and approach Shakhs Khaled. I am met by perhaps the most grotesque sight I have ever come across. Shakhs Khaled has the look of an ancient ape. His closed eyes are sunken and set in black sockets. His parchment-like skin is deeply wrinkled; not only on his face, but also his bald head. He is more corpse than human.

But it is his robes that stop me in my tracks. Covering almost every inch of cloth are the severed heads of his victims. Some are skulls, long rotten. But closer to his heart they still have hair and rotting flesh. And, directly over his heart, is today's kill. A baby girl with black hair. The blood is still dripping from her neck and on to the thinning hair of a boy's head below her.

This is a different kind of evil.

Behind me, Hermione retches. I cannot blame her. Even I am repulsed.

Against the desire of every bone in my body, I move closer and tip his head back. He has only a few black teeth left. His breath reeks of blood. I pour three drops of Veritaserum down his throat.

' _Rennervate.'_

Shakhs Khaled opens his eyes.

'What is your name?' I say. I must test the efficacy of the Veritaserum with some preliminary questions.

Shakhs Khaled's eyelids flicker. 'Saleem Pasha.' His voice is a deep rumble.

'How did you come to be known as Shakhs Khaled?'

Shakhs Khaled takes a deep, shuddering breath then begins to speak. 'It all began with my darling wife's death.'

My eyes narrow. 'The woman in the photo?'

'Yes. Her father took me in. Trained me in the magical arts. He was a great wizard, well regarded in the community. But Yennenga … she was promised to another man. It was custom. She was meant for the Chief Warlock's son. But she fell in love with me, and I her.

'Knowing her father would never approve, we stole off into the night and eloped. We were happy for a time, but I always felt guilty. Her father saved my life, taught me everything I knew. I thought he would understand, if only we explained it to him. My darling Yennenga told me not to, but I told him. And he … he … '

Shakhs Khaled's head rolls back and his face is stricken with an ancient grief. He does not need to tell me that her father killed his wife.

'And you took your revenge?' I say, leaning in.

'Yes. I killed her father, the man she was promised to, and even the Chief Warlock himself. I destroyed the village with Fiendfyre. They had taken her from me. They did not deserve a clean death.'

'Harry,' says Hermione warningly, but I cut her off.

'So, having avenged her death, why did you do all this?' I gesture towards his abominable cloak.

'I had to return her to me. I could not live without her. I have seen magic do miraculous things; surely it could bring back the dead? I travelled the world looking for the answer. But everywhere I went was a dead end – wizards such as Nicolas Flamel had unlocked the secrets of prolonged life, but I could find no spell that can reawaken the dead.

'And then I heard tell of a legend; a stone so powerful it can bring loved ones back from the land of the dead.' My hand involuntarily goes to my pocket. 'After decades of searching, I found the stone in England. It was in the hands of a senile old woman who had set it into a ring. She had no idea of its power.

'I turned it three times, as legend says one must. And I could see my love, talk to her, even. But she was not returned to me. In that moment, I nearly took my life.'

'Did you find out how to bring her back?' I ask.

'Yes, in theory. After returning the useless stone to the old woman, I went deep into the Amazon rainforest and found a tribe whose elders live for hundreds of years. They worship their ancestors and, rumour had it, found a way to communicate with them.

'But they were a mistrustful people. Many wizards before me had tracked them down, hoping to unlock the secrets of long life. But they guarded these secrets jealously. I spent fifty long years in their company before they trusted me. Only those who are immune to death can venture into the land of the dead and bring back those who dwell there ...'

I stumble backwards, numb. Here it is. The answer I have been searching for. It is so simple, so elegant. I realise that Shakhs Khaled is still speaking.

'… and searched but I have not found a fool-proof way of immunising myself to death. Unicorn's blood, baby's souls, these are all temporary ….'

But I have the answer. Slughorn gave it to me at the tender age of sixteen. His voice comes to me unbidden.

' _Well, you split your soul, you see … Then, even if one's body is attacked or destroyed, one cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged …'_

My mind goes back to the Battle of Hogwarts. The Horcrux inside me meant I could speak to Dumbledore. And if I could speak to him, what would have stopped me from bringing him back to life with me?

A jet of red light brings me back to the present: Hermione has Stunned Shakhs Khaled. She is staring aghast at me, fresh tears pouring down her face.

'I know what you're thinking, Harry.'

'I'm not thinking anything,' I say, but she has heard too much. I should have Stunned her.

'I'm not stupid. You – You can't. _Think_ , Harry, think about it rationally.'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'You can't make a Horcrux!' she screams.

I need to Obliviate her; it's the only way. 'It's not the same as Voldemort. I'm doing this for love.'

Hermione lets out something between a laugh and a sob. She is quite hysterical. 'No, Harry, it would be for yourself. _Think_ , Harry. Could you really kill someone? An innocent person –'

'You think Shakhs Khaled is _innocent_?'

'You promised me, Harry!' she yells. 'You promised me you wouldn't hurt anyone!'

'Look –'

'She wouldn't want you to do it, Harry! For all her crazy ideas –'

'DON'T CALL HER CRAZY!'

Blood is ringing in my ears and I am breathing heavily.

'But she _was_ Harry, and I know why. I didn't want to tell you like this, but I've been doing some digging –'

'Shut up.' A red mist of hot anger is clouding my vision but my voice is oddly calm.

'Listen to me, Harry, before you do something you regret. Luna –'

I utter an inarticulate yell of rage and slash my wand in her direction. Anything to stop the filthy lies pouring from her mouth. Blood spurts from her chest as though she has been cut with an invisible sword. She staggers backwards, her face contorted with pain and disbelief, and collapses with a dull thud.

She will not keep me from my Luna.

I Disapparate.


	15. Murder in St Mungo's

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on the characters and world created by JK Rowling. Anything you do not recognise is my own creation. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

– CHAPTER FIFTEEN –

 _ **Murder in St Mungo's**_

* * *

'Are we ever gonna do this?'

Neville's jaw clenched, but he otherwise showed no signs that he had heard his partner. He simply stared at the St Mungo's blueprint he had acquired a week previous.

Working with Ron Weasley had been more difficult than any of his missions with the Unit. At first, it had been so promising. Ron had cleaned himself up and, with Neville's help, made his house liveable. Driven to help Harry, Ron had tracked down Lazarus' mother in the space of a week, a feat that would have taken Neville months. They had begun to formulate the beginnings of a plan when September the Nineteenth struck.

 _'D'you … d'you think I should …' Ron began, but trailed off uncertainly._

 _'Think you should what?' Neville said, looking up. Ron was unrecognisable from the snivelling wretch Neville had found at the start of the month. His flaming red hair was now cropped short and bereft of the grease that had once smothered it. He was clean-shaven and, after a fortnight of gorging himself, looked less skeletal._

 _'Nah … probably a bad idea.'_

 _'What is?'_

 _Ron's face flashed with the familiar look of pain, but there was something else now. Was it hope?_

 _'It's just … it's her birthday today.'_

 _There was no mistaken which 'her' Ron was referring to. Neville considered for a moment before nodding. After all, Ron was a changed man now, much more like the war hero he had fought alongside at the Battle of Hogwarts._

 _'You should owl her,' Neville said._

Famous last words.

Ron had disappeared into his bedroom for hours and emerged with a three foot roll of parchment. His scrawled handwriting covered both sides. Neville had pointed out that it was the most he had ever seen Ron write, and Ron had laughed. Actually laughed.

That night, Ron owled Hermione. One day went by. Then two, three, four, five. With every passing day, Ron's mood darkened. On the tenth day, Hermione had sent the letter back unopened. That evening, Ron had his first sip of Firewhiskey.

A week had passed since then, and it had taken all of Neville's self-control not to hex him into oblivion. While Neville built a complete profile on Lazarus' family, Ron sat brooding over old photographs and letters. Whenever Neville tried to teach Ron the theory behind their disguises, Ron would snap something like 'It's only Polyjuice, get over it' or 'We didn't kill Voldemort by sitting on our arses'. When Neville reminded him that the three Gryffindors had indeed spent a great deal of time planning, Ron would retreat to his room.

'You know what,' said Neville, feigning brightness, 'I think we're ready.'

'Finally.'

Ron, who had been spread over the shabby armchair, swung his legs around and jumped to his feet.

'So if you remember what I was telling you about Lazarus' cousin yesterday …'

'He's a mute. I know, I know. I'm not deaf.'

Ever since Hermione's rejection, Neville had been worried about Ron blowing their cover; even when sober, he wasn't exactly the most careful. Then, during one of the Veritaserum sessions with Lazarus' mother, Neville struck gold. Her brother's son had lost his tongue in a magical accident. Within half an hour of that interrogation, Neville had found Peter Boon in a Muggle brothel.

Of course, Ron had not taken the time to study Peter's body language, or even his style of dress. But Camilla, Lazarus' mother, was an imposing woman. Neville was counting on all eyes being on her rather than the mousy, mute boy. It was a risk he never would have taken on a job for the Unit, but times were desperate.

Neville went over to an old, pock-marked grandfather clock in the corner of the room. He drew a circle around the clock face with the tip of his wand and the clock dissolved, revealing a pewter cauldron pregnant with thick, bubbling liquid.

Neville could feel Ron approaching behind him. He held his arm out; he could not afford to let Ron ruin the potion, not now he was so close. Neville knelt down so his eyes were level with the surface of the cauldron. The bubbling Polyjuice was thick and mud-like: it was ready.

Neville reached into his robe and pulled out two vials. Silently, he handed one to Ron and scooped a healthy amount of potion into his own. Once Ron had filled his vial, Neville took two hairs from his robe pocket. Ron took the blonde lock and Neville the silver one.

'Merlin, that looks disgusting,' murmured Ron, eyeing his potion, which was now an acid green.

'It could be worse,' muttered Neville. His own potion had turned a sickly yellow upon adding the hair.

Ron raised his vial in a mock toast. 'To Harry.'

Neville raised the vial to his mouth. The smell of rotting fish made him gag. Holding his nose with his free hand, he downed the potion in one.

His eyes watered. Beyond the sharp, burning sensation, Neville's mouth detected the fishy taste his nose had warned of. He tried to see how Ron was faring, but the room was a blur of colour.

 _Accio glasses!_

Neville squinted and made out a black object flying at him. He made to swipe it out of the air but missed and instead hit the cauldron with a clang. As if to add insult to the pain travelling up his arm, the glasses thudded against the side of his head. Cursing, he picked the glasses up and placed them at the end of his elongated nose.

The first thing he saw was Ron peering at the mirror in disgust. He looked to be in his early twenties, but his blonde hair was already receding into a sharp widow's peak. His crooked nose would have made Dumbledore proud and his beaver-like front teeth, stained yellow, hung over his bottom lip.

'I never said you'd be Lockhart,' said Neville, and his voice came out in a thin, reedy hiss.

Ron opened his mouth to reply, but only managed a strangled gurgle. Where his tongue should have been was a black hole.

'Right, let's get on with it, then,' said Neville.

 _Accio clothes!_

Frilly green robes embroidered with chrysanthemums shot at him from a box by the window. Ron, who was a similar size to Peter Boon, would not need to change. Trying not to catch sight of his own withered, sagging flesh, Neville slipped into the robes. He switched his toe-capped boots for plimsolls: while Mrs Boon always wore high heels, Neville could barely walk in them, let alone make a quick getaway.

He tried to walk over to the mirror but found his body stiff and immobile.

 _Accio cane!_

A dragon-headed black cane emerged from the box. With it, Neville found he made reasonable progress across the room. He peered over his cat-eye spectacles and checked his disguise. Staring back at him was a stern-looking old woman with grey hair rolled into a bun. Her heavily-lipsticked mouth was permanently forced into a tight frown.

'Perfect,' said Neville. He tried to smile, but found it hurt.

Taking a breath, he got into character. This would not be as easy as impersonating Hans the barman: for one, he was an old woman now. That meant holding himself straighter and being careful not to make sudden movements. He had not had enough practice time to fool an expert, but he was confident the Aurors guarding Lazarus would be none-the-wiser.

'Come along, Peter,' said Neville sharply, 'we are running late. Your cousin is waiting.'

Ron's ugly features twisted into a disgusted snarl: at least he had remembered some of Neville's research.

Neville held out his arm imperiously. Ron scowled but gripped it nonetheless. They Disapparated and reappeared in the reception of St Mungo's.

'Release my arm, boy, we've arrived.'

Martha the welcomewitch barely spared them a glance. It was odd not to see her give him a warm smile: it made him feel strangely empty. They joined a small queue of people waiting to see Martha.

A woman with snakes for hair approached the desk.

'Fourth floor,' said Martha, gazing at her own nails. 'Next!'

A stooped man whose hair was standing on end approached next. He was cradling what looked like the mangled remains of a cauldron.

'I've had –'

'Ground floor, first door on your right,' said Martha, failing to hide her boredom.

'But –'

'Has your accident impaired your hearing? Ground floor, first door on your right. Next!'

Neville and Ron shuffled forward. Neville glanced at Ron as a man with cacti for hands approached the desk. He could clearly see the doubt etched across Ron's face. Neville squeezed his shoulder and breathed, 'Don't worry, it'll work.'

Ron did not look pacified but raised voices drew his attention back to the counter.

'And I already told you, sir, that you want the fourth floor.'

'I don't think I care for your tone, missy.' The man was pointing a cactus hand at Martha, who was looking exasperated.

'Either you make your way to the fourth floor or I call for security and you can heal yourself. The choice is yours.'

The man glared at Martha before sweeping away, muttering under his breath. Neville moved forward to the desk.

'I'm here to see Tiberius Boon,' said Neville. Despite his best efforts, it came out as a low hiss.

Martha's head snapped up and, for the first time, she looked completely alert. Neville knew the Aurors would have instructed her to report any visitors to Tiberius, otherwise known as Lazarus. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that a portly, red-faced man in a portrait by the desk disappeared out of his frame.

'And you are?' she said.

Neville fixed her with the most withering look he could muster and said, 'His mother.'

Martha's eyes narrowed. 'But when we first contacted you, you said he could "rot in hell for all you cared".'

Neville had expected this; from his interviews with Mrs Boon, he knew that Lazarus had tried to murder her. There was no love lost between mother and son.

'Young lady, the boy who was my son lies dying in one of your beds. He may have been a disgrace to my noble house, but he remains my blood and I wish to see him one last time. Am I to understand that you will not allow me to exercise my ancient rights?'

Martha shifted uncomfortably, but was no less suspicious. She was stalling, Neville realised.

'Ancient rights?' she said.

'Muggle-borns,' Neville tutted, sharing a look with an incredulous Ron.

'I'll have you know –' began Martha, reddening somewhat.

'I am not here to argue, girl. Tell me where my son is.'

The portly man returned to his portrait and coughed. Martha immediately regained her composure and gave Neville a brilliant smile.

'Of course, Madam Boon. Your son is in Ward forty-nine on the fourth floor. Shall I call a member of staff to assist you?'

'I'm old, not stupid. I can make may own way there. Come along, Peter.'

Neville hobbled away from the desk and went through the double doors. He was painfully aware of the portraits either side of him, silent spies for the Ministry. His cane clanked as he made for the familiar rickety staircase.

His stomach had often been in knots in this very corridor. He had known, even as a small child, that any day could bring the news he had always dreaded: that his parents were dead. But now his nerves were directed at their likely arrest and incarceration.

He did not fear that the portraits were reporting to the Aurors. He was not even afraid of the Aurors themselves. No, what he was afraid of was Bogand. Bogand had pre-empted Harry's attempt to break into the Unit and locked him out. Was Bogand one step ahead of Neville, too?

Neville's cane hit each step he climbed with a clank until they came to the double doors marked 'Spell Damage'.

What would Neville find beyond the doors? The more he thought about it, the more fool-hardy the plan seemed. Bogand would have predicted this. He would have Obliviators on the other side of the door, ready to make Neville forget the last ten years of his life at the Ministry.

His gut told him to abandon the mission, and his gut was almost never wrong.

'Let's come another day,' said Neville.

But Ron had other ideas. He burst into the room.

Neville closed his eyes and counted to five. If Unit agents were behind that door, their cover was blown. Peter Boon never disobeyed his Aunt: if Neville knew that, so to would the agents. He listened for any sign of a scuffle. The Obliviate spell could not be cast wordlessly: if Ron had been hit, he would know. Then maybe, just maybe, it was safe to proceed. After all, Bogand would already have his hands full tracking Harry …

Tentatively, Neville pushed the door to the Janus Thickey Ward. And beyond it there was … nothing. No Elladora greeting him at the door, no patients in their beds, no Healers swarming around like green bees. It was completely empty. Except for one bed.

A cold feeling that had nothing to do with the open window trickled down his neck.

Something was seriously wrong.

Ron made a strangled noise and pointed towards the only occupied bed.

'No!' hissed Neville.

With a sharp swipe, his wand was in his hand. He laid it flat on his palm.

 _Homenum revelio!_

His wand grew hot and, compass-like, alternated between Ron and the bed. It was true: the ward was empty. Rather than soothe him, the news had the opposite effect. Where were the Aurors guarding the bed? Neville closed his eyes and groaned. Of course! The portly man in the portrait must have warned them of Neville's arrival. And he, with all his years of experience, had fallen into their trap.

Neville grabbed Ron roughly and said, 'Home.'

But nothing happened.

'Fuck!' They had activated anti-Portkey wards. The blueprint Neville had obtained had failed to cover emergency measures. But Neville was not going to roll over.

He lashed his wand like a whip and cried, _'Obscuro!'_

There were several gasps from two portraits hanging either side of the door as their occupants became blindfolded. With another flick of his wand, a large cage, almost the size of each frame, appeared in each painting.

'How dare you!'

'Release us at once!'

'Braggard!'

Ignoring the cries coming from the trapped paintings, Neville turned to Ron.

'The Aurors know we're imposters. There's only one entrance, so we know where they'll come from. I want you to Disillusion yourself. Set any traps you can wordlessly, and hold them off if you can. Just do what we practised and we'll be fine.'

Ron nodded, tapped the tip of his wand on his head and disappeared from sight.

Neville felt the calm sense of purpose that gripped him during missions wash over him. They had spent two days practising for this eventuality. If Ron stuck to the plan, they would be fine.

Clank! Clank! Clank!

Neville reached Lazarus' bed in three hobbled steps. Lazarus' features, once handsome and haughty, were sunken and hollow. Beads of sweat clung to his face and plastered his dirty auburn hair to his face. His eyes were wide and fearful. While he no longer thrashed, he continued to mutter endlessly.

'Stone … Death … Stone … Death …'

Neville lowered his head so he was inches from Lazarus' face. He looked deep into Lazarus' dark eyes and said, _'Legilimens!'_

Lazarus' pupils grew wider and wider until Neville was swimming in a tide of hazy nothingness. Neville charged further in and found misty clouds darting this way and that, impossible to read: Lazarus' mind was preparing to die.

Neville kept the image of Harry at the forefront of his mind and called out to the memories. They slowed, but continued to rush by at an unreadable speed.

Neville knew what he had to do. Unauthorised, it warranted a life sentence in Azkaban, but Neville had to know for sure. He could not confront Harry without absolute proof. He _had_ to know! And, after all, Lazarus was dying anyway. Not only that, but Lazarus was responsible for the deaths of countless witches and wizards who had strayed off the beaten track. Yes, he thought, it was justified.

He pictured Harry's face again. _Arresto!  
_  
The fleeing memories immediately stopped moving: all except one. Neville called it to him and it obeyed.

Suddenly, the other memories faded away and Neville found himself in a pub he knew well: Pendrell's Oak. Dying candlelight illuminated upturned wooden chairs resting on rickety tables. The mahogany bar was unmanned, the non-descript door was firmly shut and four men surrounded a fifth.

As the colours sharpened, Neville could see that the surrounded man was Dennis Creevey. He was on his knees, his hands together.

'You act as though I'm being unreasonable,' said Lazarus in his nasally voice. He alone of the four men was seated. He leaned back nonchalantly and an ugly smirk twisted his handsome face. 'I extended you a loan for your photography shop at a rate Gringotts would never offer an unconnected Muggle-born. And now, when I want my money back, you're fobbing me off.'

'I – I swear I'm not!'

'Rohan, another round,' said Lazarus.

 _'Crucio!'_

Neville looked on with disgust as Creevey writhed in pain. Lazarus raised his hand and Creevey's screams subsided, though he still twitched convulsively.

'Now, let's come up with a payment –'

BANG!

A body burst through the door with such force that the entire pub shook. It arced through the air amongst a cloud of wooden shards and slammed into a nearby table. Another body flew through the doorway and landed on the bar with a sickening thud.

Lazarus' three cronies stared at the bodies in horror, but Lazarus jumped to his feet, his eyes narrowed. He flicked his wand and Creevey mechanically held his wand to his own temple. Neville understood: he had been placed under the Imperius Curse.

A soft breeze blew autumn leaves into the pub.

'Tiberius … Tiberius …'

For the first time, Lazarus registered fear.

'To the door!' he cried at his cronies. 'Guard the door!'

The three wizards, however, looked as though they were frozen to the spot. Lazarus tried to Disapparate to no avail. His eyes darted to the roaring fireplace. As he took a step towards it, the entire pub was plunged into darkness.

One flash of brilliant green. Then another, and another.

The candles relit, stronger than before. All three guards lay in a crumpled heap. Creevey was nowhere to be seen. Lazarus alone remained standing. The flames in the fireplace, which had been dancing and spitting moments before, were extinguished.

 _'Incendio!'  
_  
A jet of flame shot out of Lazarus' wand, but died before it could reach the fireplace.

In a cruel parody of the situation minutes before, Lazarus dropped to his knees and his curtained hair fell across his face. A cloaked man seemed to step out of thin air. The invisibility cloak, Neville knew. His hood cast a dark shadow over his face: Neville could not make out the features.

'Please, I can help you!' In a movement quicker than Neville would have expected, Lazarus brought up his wand and cried, _'Avada Kedavra!'_

Death sidestepped the curse with ease. A hoarse, low laugh came from behind the hood.

Without warning, a jet of golden fire issued from Death's wand. The wand in Lazarus' hand exploded in a golden shower. In the light, Neville recognised the wand Death was holding: the Elder Wand.

With another swing of the legendary wand, Lazarus was forced into the air and hung beneath the ceiling like a piece of meat in a butcher's shop.

'Where is the Resurrection Stone?' said Death, his voice calm.

An odd, peaceful look was passing over Lazarus' face. Neville had seen it countless times. Lazarus knew that his death was imminent, and he had accepted it.

'You'll never know.'

A black curse Neville did not recognise shot out of the Elder Wand with such force that it recoiled in Death's hand. It struck Lazarus in the chest. The criminal began convulsing violently. His face was drained of colour and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. White froth crawled out of his open mouth.

Neville looked on with horror. He had assumed the Cruciatus Curse had put Lazarus in his current state. But this … this was much worse.

Lazarus floated towards Death, stopping only when they were eye to eye.

 _'Legilimens!'_

They remained nose to nose for one, two, three minutes.

Then Lazarus dropped, a puppet whose strings had been cut. Death suddenly whirled around so quickly that his hood shot back a fraction.

Neville's heart sunk.

Messy, jet black hair poked out from underneath the hood. Death turned back around. Reflected candlelight flickered in the lenses of a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. A pair of brilliant green eyes pierced through the shimmering flames.

It was Harry.

Harry readjusted his hood and examined Lazarus' limp form. Satisfied, he straightened up and disappeared. A moment later, a pair of Aurors stepped into the pub, their wands raised. Neville withdrew …

… And returned to chaos.

A rainbow array of spells were flying through the ward, shredding through curtains and renting beds apart. Half a dozen Aurors had just broken through a curved wall Ron must have conjured. A fraction of a second before they caught sight of him, Neville Disillusioned himself and silenced his body.

Neville dropped to his stomach. He reasoned that he must have transformed back into his normal body as the movement did not break any bones. A jet of red light passed so close over his head that he felt the force of it.

 _Stupefy!_

The spell struck the ankle of the Auror nearest him and the thick-set wizard hit the floor with a thud.

'It came from over there!' yelled a blonde witch. She was pointed straight at Neville.

Neville touched the floor with the tip of his wand.

 _Glisseo!_

Neville propelled himself under the cover of a nearby bed as a volley of Stunners struck the spot he had just vacated.

'Fan out,' called a deep, powerful voice, 'we have them trapped here. What's the status on Lazarus?'

'He's dead,' replied a high voice.

'Thought so. Remember our orders: they're to be brought in alive.'

Neville looked this way and that, analysing the situation. The Auror he had Stunned had been Rennervated. He had no chance of outdueling six Aurors. There were two Aurors between his safe spot under the bed and the door. And Merlin only knew where Ron was hiding.

Stunning spells were flying thick through the air. A Finite Incantatem whistled past his bed.

Neville had an idea. He just hoped his shaky Transfiguration was up to it.

 _Glisseo! Glisseo! Glisseo!_

One of the Aurors slipped and crashed into another. Before they could think to nullify the spell, Neville ordered the nearest bed to begin sliding around. It crashed straight into a pair of legs that Neville guessed belonged to the blonde Auror. Concentrating as hard as he could, Neville animated two more beds and willed them to join the commotion.

' _F – Finite Incan_ – oomph!'

The Aurors were struggling to deal with the situation in such a confined space.

With a mighty push, Neville propelled himself past an unconscious Auror and through the ward entrance.

Before he could congratulate himself, the world went black.

Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder. The faint smell of gunpowder gave it away.

'Neville?' muttered Ron, somewhere to his right.

'Here.'

'One sec.'

A blow struck Neville in the chest. He cried out in pain.

'They're in the corridor!' bellowed a voice.

'Sorry,' muttered Ron. 'Take off the Disillusionment.'

The part of him closest to his throbbing chest wanted to tell Ron to go fuck himself. But Neville did he was told. His reward: being dragged roughly to his feet.

Ron guided Neville up what Neville assumed to be the staircase. When they reached a landing, Neville found he could now see.

Ron's robes were torn and there was a throbbing bruise on one cheek. He was also wearing a strange pair of glasses. The lenses were bright green.

'They help you see through the dark,' Ron explained. 'It's a prototype George made.' He then took out a pouch and flung its powdery contents down the staircase below, plunging it in darkness.

'That was … brilliant, Ron.'

'Don't sound so surprised,' Ron muttered. 'We can't pat ourselves on the back yet, mate, we're still trapped here.'

'Follow me,' said Neville.

Neville and Ron jogged down a deserted corridor with what looked like a teashop at the end of it. His throbbing chest fought against every step. Ignoring the pain, Neville blinded and trapped the portraits as they went by.

Three doors away from the tearoom was a glass door that was ornately carved with the words: Head of St Mungo's. He had been here a number of times as a child. Given how high-profile his parents had been and the amount his grandmother paid in donations, Head Healer Machaon regularly invited them up to her office for tea.

Neville pushed it open and, once they were in, locked it behind them. He pictured Machaon and applied a glamour on the door. Any passers-by would assume that she was busy with a patient.

'This place is a bit shabby for a Head of Department,' said Ron.

The office was indeed very simple; a mahogany table sat in front of a large window. Dappled light filtered in through the blinds and gave the office a cabin-like quality. But it was empty, and for that Neville was grateful.

'Never mind that,' snapped Neville.

He began pacing furiously. Harry was Death. Death was Harry. Harry was clearly accustomed to torture and killing. He was honing his craft for Luna's killer. And he had all three Hallows in his power. What did he need them for? Only the Elder Wand would be of any use when he confronted the culprit.

Neville had to arrest Harry, that much was clear. But where to find him? How close had Harry come to working out the identity of Luna's murderer?

'So what's the next step?' asked Ron.

'That,' said Neville, rounding on him, 'is a bloody good question.'

'What did you see in Lazarus' mind?'

'Harry's in serious trouble. We need to find him as soon as possible or he's going to do something stupid.'

Ron pushed a stack of parchment to one side and leaned on Machaon's table.

'If we're gonna find him,' said Ron, 'we need to know what his motivations are.'

'We know what his motivations are,' snapped Neville.

'No, I mean we need to really get inside his head.'

'How are we …'

Neville trailed off. Of course! They needed to get inside Harry's head! And who better to ask than the very man who was paid to do just that.

'Ron, you're an absolute genius.'

'I am?'

Neville tried to recall the name of Harry's Mind Healer. He was at Luna's funeral; Neville had even shaken hands with him. It was Sayer-something. No, Sayer was his surname. Neville hoped that would be enough.

'We're going to pay a visit to a man who knows Harry better than anyone,' said Neville. He walked over to the fireplace.

 _Incendio!_

With a jab his wand, a fire roared into life. He grabbed a handful of Floo powder from the mantelpiece.

'Our next stop is Healer Sayer's Office.'

Feeling the day was finally looking up, Neville flung the powder into the fire, which immediately turned bottle green. He clearly said 'Healer Sayer's Office' and stepped into the fire.

He rolled out at the other end and found himself in an empty office. It was similar in style to Head Healer Machaon's office, except it had a chamois leather couch instead of a hearth rug. Neville dusted himself off and heard Ron stumble in behind him.

There was another similarity to Machaon's office: it was deserted. And it looked as though it had been that way for some time.

'Fuck,' muttered Neville.

But then he caught sight of something on the cupboard shelf: a heavy, stone basin he had only seen twice before. It was a Pensieve.

Intrigued, Neville approached it. As he drew closer, he noticed strange runes around the edge. Neville could not read them.

Neville hesitated. Pensieves were incredible rare and personal. The ones he had seen – the Hogwarts Headmistress' and Bogand's – were jealously guarded by both. But Sayer had left his here where anyone could find it. Neville could only draw one conclusion: it was meant to be found.

'Is that?' breathed Ron.

'Yeah.'

Carefully, Neville lifted it from the shelf. It was surprisingly light. The silvery mist, neither liquid nor gas, swirled furiously as he transported it to the table. He laid it down carefully, as though handling a baby.

'Ron,' said Neville, transfixed by the writhing memories, 'I need you to do me a favour and keep guard. I need to see what Harry's Mind Healer left behind.'

'Why do I have to stand guard again?' he said petulantly.

'Pensieve memories are clearest to Legilimens,' Neville lied. 'And one of us has to stand guard just in case they work out we came here.'

Neville doubted they would. Not even Bogand would dream that Neville would forgo the opportunity to leave the hospital. Regardless, it would be prudent to make sure.

Ron grumbled, but his shuffling feet told Neville he was making for the door.

'Make sure you –'

'– Disillusion myself, I know.'

Neville waited for the door to close before taking a closer look at the contents of the Pensieve. The mist suddenly cleared. He could see a street far below, but he could not make out the details. He leaned further forward until his nose touched the surface.

With a lurch, the office disappeared.


	16. And The Truth Will Set You Free

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on the characters and world created by JK Rowling. Anything you do not recognise is my own creation. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

– CHAPTER SIXTEEN –

 _ **And The Truth Will Set You Free**_

* * *

I reappear in the front garden of our half-destroyed house at Godric's Hollow. Soon it will be whole.

Soon I will be whole.

I pace up and down. I need to think logically, like this is another mission. The goal is to reawaken my darling Luna. The key is to create a Horcrux. That way I can cross into the land of the dead and find her. I need to take this step by step.

I know how to create a Horcrux. An act of killing followed by the right intent, and the right spell. I have the intent. I know the spell.

And I know just the right person to kill.

I laugh and, for the first time since her death, it comes from deep within me. I hear a flap of wings as birds take flight. A pair of Muggles glance at me before scuttling away. But I do not care.

It is so elegant.

I will find the scum who killed her. His death will pay for her life.

My gut tells me it is Bogand, but I must make sure. There can be no mistakes with this. It must be just right. I need to find out exactly who accessed the register of homes before her death.

' _During the preparation for war, the Ministry had every wizarding family register their home with the Ministry.'_

If the law was enacted during wartime, the register must be under the control of the Auror department. This makes things a hundred times more difficult. Even with my Elder Wand, I cannot hope to break in by force. And there are Aurors working around the clock, so sneaking in is not an option either. I must hide in plain sight.

I will adopt the mask of grieving husband one last time.

I Disapparate and land in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic. There are a handful of harried-looking witches and wizards hurrying towards me. I rearrange my face so it is solemn and funereal. But my wand is close to hand … just in case.

I walk slowly towards the golden gates at the far end of the hall. Most of the commuters are too wrapped up in their journey home to spare me a glance. One or two double-take, however, but I do not give them a chance to speak.

I am at the golden gates when a voice calls, 'Mr Potter!'

I silently curse before turning around. A badly-shaved wizard in peacock blue robes is hobbling towards me. The effort of the ten metre dash seems to get the better of him.

'Hello, Eric,' I say.

He bends over double and takes deep, halting breaths. 'Mr Potter,' he wheezes, 'I'm sorry, but you're not authorised to enter.'

I almost laugh at the idea of Eric preventing me from entering the Ministry. But I must not make a scene. I cannot alert Bogand.

'I'm not here on Ministry business,' I say.

'I have orders, I'm afraid.'

Eric finally looks up at me and, like the commuters, does a double-take. Surely Eric is used to seeing the Boy Who Lived To Lose His Mind?

'Are you – are you ok, Mr Potter?' he says.

'Yes,' I reply. 'I have some important information for the Auror department. It's about my wife.'

Eric's face twists into the kind of pitying stare that makes me want to curse him into oblivion.

'If you tell me, I can pass the message on.'

Not fucking likely.

I raise my wand. Eric has only a split second to register surprise before I say, ' _Imperio!'_

The familiar feeling of tingling warmth flows from my mind and through my wand.

'Very good, Mr Potter,' says Eric, 'I will escort you down to the Auror department.'

'Thank you.'

We enter the lift closest to us in silence. The grilles slide shut and, with a crash, the lift ascends slowly, chains rattling. For the first time in my memory, the lift judders upwards, all the way to the floor I need without interruption. It is almost as the very building wants me to find the truth as quickly as possible.

'Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters and Wizengamot Administration Services.'

We step out into a corridor lined with doors and turn a corner. Perfectly in step, we walk through a pair of heavy oak doors and emerge in a cluttered open area divided into cubicles. Even at this time of evening, it is alive with the buzz of talk and darting memos. The same lopsided sign I saw before my fifth year at Hogwarts still reads: _Auror Headquarters._

As we walk past the first few cubicles, the chatter dies and a hushed silence rolls across the floor.

A scarlet-robed man with a long ponytail who, seconds before, was reclining in his chair, his boots on the desk, jumps to his feet. His cubicle is papered with _Daily Prophet_ cuttings; one depicted our half-destroyed cottage, another the funeral, and many more on my Hallows.

My heart does a somersault as I lock eyes with my Luna's bright, wide eyes. Her hair is in the bun she usually wore while working at the library and her wand, as ever, is stored behind her ear for safe-keeping.

'Mr Potter,' says the Auror, and I tear my eyes away from Luna. He looks at me with slack-jawed disbelief. 'Wha' – I mean, we weren' expectin' yeh.'

'I wasn't expecting to be here either,' I say, lacing each word with grief, 'but I have information for the Auror conducting my investigation.'

'Tha' wud be me, bu' I'm 'fraid –'

'The Minister cleared him to come down here, Denton,' says Eric, 'so long as he sticks with me.'

'Did 'e now,' says Denton. His suspicion is palpable, but he appears reluctant to question Shacklebolt's orders.

'I won't take up more than five minutes of your time,' I say.

Denton nods and summons a chair from a nearby cubicle. I take the proffered chair and Denton returns to his, but is now sat bolt upright. As he does so, he rearranges some of his papers. This is not lost on me.

'How far have you gotten in your investigation?' I ask.

Denton shakes his head. 'Sorry, Mr Potter, bu' I can' discuss the facts o' the case.'

I decide to dial it up. 'I – I just want to help any way I can. Anything to catch her killer!'

Denton lays a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. 'I get it, trus' me, I do. Bu' the best thing yeh can do is leave it to t' experts.'

'I know, I just feel so helpless …'

'You said you had some information,' presses Denton.

'Yes,' I say. 'As you may already know, there were powerful enchantments around our home which made it almost to breach.'

'Correct, which is why we reckon it's spell exp –'

'So if someone wanted to break in, they'd have to know exactly what wards have been put in place. It's been brought to my attention that the Ministry keeps a register of the wards around every wizarding family.'

Denton leans forward, the lines of suspicion etching further into his face. 'An' 'ow the 'ell wud yeh – '

'My friend Hermione looked it up,' I say truthfully, 'she has access to Ministry libraries.'

'I see,' says Denton. I consider the Imperius Curse, but since the last war, Shacklebolt has made throwing off the curse a key part of Aurors' training.

'Well?'

'Well wha'?'

'Aren't you going to check the register?'

'Mr Potter –'

'My wife is dead! And you're not going to do this one check that could rule out murder?'

'It's not as –'

'My friend Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister for Magic, assured me that his Aurors would chase all leads. Are you not one of his Aurors, Denton?'

'I am –'

'Good, I'm glad that's settled. I'll wait here while you check, shall I?'

Denton gets to his feet. He appears no less wary, but my cocktail of grief, logic and name dropping appears to be doing its work. He nods and drifts away.

I glance around, wait until nobody is looking, before donning my invisibility cloak. I command Eric to take my place. A few taps of my Elder Wand on his face and any casual observer would mistake him for me. I rely on the reports in the _Daily Prophet_ questioning my sanity to prevent anyone coming in for a closer look.

Satisfied, I search for Denton. He is almost certainly with Gawain Robards, the Head of the Auror Department: partly to get his orders, and partly because, according to Hermione, only Robards would have access to the register.

Quickly as I dare, I dart past the rows of cubicles and through the open door to Robards' office at the end of the hall.

The office is sparse and barely larger than the cubicles outside; it is made even smaller by the many shelves and cupboards that line the walls. I barely have enough space to squeeze in. Robards, the quintessential grizzled old Auror, sits behind a wooden desk that does not match the upholstery. Denton stands with his hands behind his back, oddly formal.

'– I know what you're saying, but it's not as easy as that, son,' Robards is saying.

'It's one of the firs' lessons they teach in t' Academy,' says Denton, firm but respectful. 'Killers always wanna know wha' we're doin', if we're closin' in on 'em.'

He is right, of course. One sure-fire way of catching a killer is lying in wait outside the Auror Department. I have done it many times. But the suggestion that _I_ killed her …

'Naturally,' says Robards, 'but, equally, there is a chance that you're wrong. Think about what happens if we bring Harry-bloody-Potter in for questioning mere weeks after his wife dies and we're wrong. It'll be carnage. Especially after we already officially concluded on the spell experimentation line. Shacklebolt will have both our heads, kid.'

'So yer suggestin' we give 'im a pass cos 'e's famous?' spits Denton.

Robards stands up. He is a foot shorter than Denton but still effortlessly owns the room. He opens a cupboard to his left and pulls out a large, dusty book.

'No,' says Robards. He dumps the book on his desk and a mushroom cloud of dust rises. 'I want you to put a tail on him first thing tomorrow morning. Someone good, someone who won't get caught. You will re-examine the scene, look for any evidence of foul play. Start with that neighbour who saw a Muggle skulking about before it happened.' He opens the book and flicks through. 'Moon … Nott … Parkinson … Here we are. Interesting.'

I lean in, my heart beating wildly in my chest.

'Anyone access it, boss?'

Robards frowns over his spectacles. 'Yes. William Sayer.'

I have to stop myself from crying out. _Sayer?_ Nothing could have prepared me for this. It makes no sense. Why would Sayer want to kill Luna? Other than that ball celebrating the Mind Healer initiative, we had never come across him before she died. What motive could he possibly have?

It makes no sense.

' –an 'Ealer at St Mungo's or summat?'

'Yes, he is. Potter's Mind Healer, as you should know.'

'Bu' what's 'e doin' snoopin' around in tha' register?'

Robards turns his back on Denton and gazes out of the window, where thunder rumbles and rain lashes down.

'I … don't know.'

''ow does 'e even 'ave access?'

'Healers can access the register in case there's an emergency and they need to get to their patients. But Potter wasn't his patient then. He shouldn't have had access … This changes things. I want you to call everyone in. And I mean _everyone._ I want two Aurors on Potter and two on Sayer. I want Sayer's house and office searched. Get someone to alert the Minister –'

My feet lead me out of the room, past the cubicles and back to the lifts.

William Sayer. The man I have been spilling my thoughts to every single fucking week. The same man who might have killed my darling Luna.

I need answers. I need to be sure. I need to know _why_.

Aurors will be swarming all over Sayer's office in a matter of moments. In any case, he'll be done for the day. He won't be home, either; he's an unmarried man in his twenties.

I crash past commuters in the Atrium but do not stop. I have to get to Sayer.

I think back to our sessions. What do I know about him? He owns a Pensieve. He went to school in France. He is probably a Muggle-born. That's it.

Think, Harry, think!

He has never shown any interest in my Hallows. None at all. He had the information to make a good go of finding them, but he never did. So what else could he possibly want?

I take long, deep breaths. Then I have it. The one thing I know for sure: the Muggle living at Walcott Square performed the deed.

I Disapparate and reappear in the old, Victorian street, directly outside number twenty-three.

With a swipe of my wand, the gate swings off its hinges with the force of a bomb blast. Another crash and the door caves inwards.

A woman rolls into view, a gun in her hand. I slash upwards and she is blasted off her feet. She crashes through a door at the far end of the hall and moves no more.

The man, Jack, thunders down the stairs. I stop him in his tracks and summon him towards me so he hangs in the air in front of the house like a puppet on invisible strings. He has answers. And he _will_ tell me.

'William Sayer,' I snarl, spitting rain.

'W – What?'

'You know that name?'

'P – Please –'

'DO YOU KNOW THAT NAME?'

'Y – Yes!' cries Jack. A sodden stream runs down his trousers and trickles onto the remnants of the gate.

'How do you know him?'

For a moment, he is frozen with fear and horror, but the faint sound of sirens seems to galvanise him. 'H – His family lived down the road when I – I was at university!'

'What _?'_

'I – I swear. P – Please, it's the truth. I – I used to babysit them on my holidays.'

' _Them_?' I say. My voice is barely audible over the wail of sirens.

'T – They were a-always together …'

'WHO?'

'William and Luna.'

I crash to my knees. William and Luna. Luna and William. My hands are on my head; I am pulling my hair. Could it be? Were they childhood sweethearts? Did he love her? _Did she love him?_ The thought comes unbidden and awakens a monstrous rage deep inside me.

But of course. _I_ was meant to be at home. Luna was meant to be away. Sayer wanted to kill _me_. With me dead, he could have Luna all to himself. And is that what she had wanted? I – I don't know. My world is crumbling around me. I have to ask her!

' _Put your hands behind your head.'_

I whirl around. Through the stinging tears and curtain of rain, I see flashing blue lights. Muggle police. I slash the Elder Wand again and again and again. Cars explode. Bodies go flying. A crater rents itself through the pavement. But the destruction is nothing, _nothing_ compared to my burning heart.

Alone among the dead, I tear down the road.

I don't want to feel.

I want to die.

Then I feel that familiar twinge. The twinge I felt the last time I was here. I whirl around and look up at a house. There is something about it. It is newer than the houses on either side. Then I remember a conversation with Luna, from a lifetime ago.

' _Have you … I mean, who … has anyone you known ever died?'_

' _Yes, my mother. She was quite an extraordinary witch, you know, but she did like to experiment and one of her spells went rather badly wrong one day. I was nine.'_

It was here, this house. It is the final proof I need. Luna once lived here. And so did Sayer.

In the wake of this final, terrible piece of evidence, a strange calm washes over me. In my mind's eye, I am in the Forest again.

I take the Resurrection Stone from my pocket and trace the etching. There is only one way I will learn the truth.

I will go to her grave and face death once more.


	17. William and Luna

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on the characters and world created by JK Rowling. Anything you do not recognise is my own creation. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

– CHAPTER SEVENTEEN –

 _ **William and Luna**_

* * *

Neville found himself in a Victorian street awash with sunlight. Along one side of the road was a row of tall, cramped identical terraced houses. The brickwork had been exposed over time by the elements and light danced across newly-scrubbed windows. The road spoke of people pulling themselves up by the boot-straps.

A boy, unmistakably William Sayer, and his mother emerged from the house closest to Neville. Unlike their neighbours' porches, fallen spring blossom covered the ground and the little patch of grass they had been afforded was wild and unkempt. But not quite as unkempt as the mother.

William's mother looked like a china doll gone wrong: her curly black hair was tied in three uneven, unwieldy pigtails; her bright red lipstick smudged into her cheek; and her wide, darting eyes had bright purple eyeliner circling them, making them look like targets. Neville was reminded strongly of his own mother. Her blue summer dress, at least, had a certain simple grace.

William had sleek, black hair and a fierce face. Though he looked no older than seven, the way William was holding his mother's hand suggested he was leading her, rather than the other way around.

William looked for traffic before coaxing his mother across the street and through an alley between two houses. Every now and again, his mother would stop and look around wildly. William would whisper to her and she calmed immediately, casting him adoring looks.

Neville followed them across a green and into a small playground. The only other occupants were a blonde girl, not much older than William, who was being pushed on the swings by her mother. William gently guided his mother to a bench, not far from the family.

'Higher, mummy, higher!'

As the girl knocked her head back and laughed, Neville saw her face clearly for the first time. He recognised that blonde, straggly hair and those wide, protuberant eyes. It was Luna. But this girl was nothing like the Luna Neville had known. There was no dreamy expression or careless air about her. She was bright and energetic.

Luna's mother greatly resembled her daughter. She wore a crown of daisies around her golden hair, a blouse of purest white and a long, flowing dress of autumn brown. She took almost as much delight from pushing Luna as Luna did.

'Higher!'

Mrs Lovegood gave a great push and, against the laws of gravity, Luna arced gracefully over the top of swing. At the top of the swing's circuit, she leapt off her seat and, rather than plummeting to the ground, drifted slowly into her mother's open arms.

William gaped at the pendulum-like movements of the now-empty swing. His mother was gazing aimlessly at a nearby squirrel, quite unaware of the miracle that had just occurred.

Mrs Lovegood seemed to feel William's eyes on her and, startled, dropped her daughter.

'How did you do that?' demanded William.

'Do what?' said Mrs Lovegood serenely, recovering quickly.

'She flew,' said William, pointing an accusatory finger at William.

Luna fearlessly stalked up to William. 'Want to try it?'

'Luna, darling –'

'It's ok, mum, I've seen him do magic.'

'Luna!'

'You've been spying on me?' demanded William.

'I was just curious,' said Luna, with a nonchalant shrug. 'We don't get many new families. Is that your mum?'

Mrs Lovegood seemed to notice William's mother for the first time. She was busy examining a ladybird that was crawling across her nail varnish-stained fingers. Mrs Lovegood betrayed a flicker of pity.

'Don't you dare!' snapped William. He was breathing heavily and glaring defiantly at Mrs Lovegood.

Luna seemed to have made her mind up about something. She stuck her hand out with an almost regal air that made Neville suspect that she considered shaking hands to be a very adult pursuit.

'I'm Luna,' she said.

William considered the proffered hand for a moment before shaking. 'I'm William.'

'I like you, Will,' she said. 'Now come on!'

As Luna grabbed William's hand and dragged him off to the swings, the scene dissolved and reformed around Neville …

He found himself in an eerily familiar room. It was identical to Harry and Luna's living room at Godric's Hollow. Cosy, plant-embroidered sofas surrounded a small coffee table on three sides; they faced a gilded fireplace, where small flames danced merrily. Great green vines snaked their way around the walls and bloomed with a vibrant panoply of flowers. The only difference between this room and the one Neville knew so well was that the photo on the mantelpiece was not of Harry and Luna's wedding, but instead showed a man with shoulder-length, candy floss hair hand in hand with his wife, and his daughter was sitting on his shoulders.

Luna and William, a little older now, were on one of the couches, cross-legged. Luna was explaining something to him; she was so excited she was practically bouncing on the chair. William was stoic, but looked considerably happier than in the previous memory.

'What are you kids talking about?'

A tray carrying two mugs of hot chocolate floated into the room followed closely by Mrs Lovegood. She looked radiant as ever with her simple red dress and flowery apron.

'I'm telling Will all about Hogwarts!' Luna jumped up and grabbed her mug from the tray, almost spilling it over William in the process.

'And what do you know of Hogwarts?' said Mrs Lovegood, stroking her daughter's hair fondly.

'Loads! Daddy told me all about it! I bet I'm in Gryffindor, like my grandma; all the best wizards go there!'

'Not all the best wizards, my dear.' She turned to William, who was sipping his hot chocolate in silence. 'You'll be a Ravenclaw, I bet; my old House.'

William mumbled something Neville did not quite catch.

'Of course you'll get a letter,' said Luna, affronted at the mere suggestion. 'He will, won't he, mum?'

'Quite right,' said Mrs Lovegood. She gracefully took a seat on one of the couches. 'How is your mother doing, dear?'

William gave a half-shrug. 'The same,' he mumbled.

'At least your father's come back to look after you both,' said Mrs Lovegood kindly. William gave another shrug but the hand not holding the hot chocolate balled into a little fist.

'Can't we take her to St Mungo's?' piped Luna.

Mrs Lovegood gave a reproachful look. 'St Mungo's doesn't admit Muggles, Luna.' She turned to William. 'I did ask, my dear, but they just don't have the expertise to heal your mother's ailment.'

''S ok,' said William.

Luna downed her hot chocolate and jumped to her feet. 'We're going upstairs,' she declared, tossing her hair adorably. She discarded William's half-drunk cup and dragged him upstairs, leaving her mother shaking her head in bemusement.

Neville had to take the stairs two at a time to keep up with Luna and William.

He found them in a brightly coloured room that could only be Luna's. The theme was unashamedly yellow; it infected the curtains, the walls, even the bedsheets. William and Luna were standing inches apart by an arched window, hand in hand.

'– But can't we get the lurgies from it, or something?' William was saying.

'I heard there's no such thing as lurgies,' said Luna, with the air of a professor revealing her greatest discovery. 'And, besides, adults do it all the time.'

'But –' began William, but Luna leant in and kissed him. They stayed there, lips touching, unmoving, for a minute.

Finally, Luna pulled away. 'Well, that wasn't as fun as I thought it was going to be,' said Luna matter-of-factly.

'Yeah …' said William breathlessly; for the first time, he had lost his composure …

Luna's bedroom vanished and Neville found himself in a small, shabby living room that reeked of neglect. A stern man that greatly resembled William was sitting on a moth-eaten armchair reading the paper. William nose was in a book that looked very complex for a nine year-old.

 _Boom!_

The ground shook as though an earthquake had hit. Books flew off shelves, light bulbs burst and windows shattered. William, who had been thrown across the floor, scrambled to his feet.

'What the fuck was that?' barked William's father, who was miraculously still glued to his armchair.

'I – I think it came from the Lovegoods!' gasped William.

'Don't you dare leave this house!'

But William's father's remonstrations fell on deaf ears. William vaulted over a stack of books and darted though the hole in the wall that had seconds before been a window.

Neville followed him out and down the road. The sight that awaited them stopped both Neville and William in their tracks.

The entire front face of the Lovegoods' house had been blown clean away. Burst pipes sprayed water in every direction and thick, red smoke poured out of what had once been the Lovegoods' living room.

William lifted the front of his t-shirt to cover his nose and proceeded into the rubble, Neville hot on his heels.

Nothing could have prepared Neville for what he saw next.

There was blood everywhere; dripping from the ceiling, running down the vines along the walls and forming a pool around Luna, who was clutching a sodden, red-stained dress. It was all that remained of her mother.

William rushed forward and dropped to his knees beside Luna. Tears had begun to form in his eyes.

Luna stared ahead, her eyes wide, unfocused and unblinking.

'L – Luna,' rasped William.

He put his arms around her, but Luna did not respond; she continued to stare into the middle distance.

'We need to get out of here, Luna!'

But Luna did not move.

'The house could collapse any minute!'

And still Luna did not move.

His eyes narrowing with resolve, William hauled Luna to her feet and shakily carried her out in his arms. Luna's protuberant eyes remained fixed on the spot she had last seen her mother …

And the scene shifted and Neville found himself on the top of a grassy mound. The meadow below was peppered with the oranges and browns of autumn. Luna was huddled over something that had her complete, undivided attention.

It was not long before Neville spotted William marching up the hill. He was carrying a coat in his hands. When William caught sight of Luna, his pale face flooded with relief.

'There you are,' said William. 'I've been looking all over for you.'

Luna looked up at him with the dreamy, far-away expression Neville knew so well.

'I think I've found a new species,' she said, smiling.

'Here, take this coat before you catch a cold,' said William. He delicately draped the coat across her shoulders.

Luna brought her finger up to eye level and examined it carefully.

'Err, what are you looking at?' asked William. The pained expression on his face told the whole story.

'I think I'm going to call it a Blimpie,' she said dreamily, tilting her head to one side.

William sighed. 'There isn't anything there, Luna.'

'Oh, but there is. They're quite shy, I think; they rarely show themselves. I wonder what magical properties they have? I bet daddy will know …'

The scene dissolved and reformed in a place Neville instantly recognised: Florean Fortescue's.

William and Luna were seated near the counter. Luna ladled an enormous sundae, smiling serenely all the while. William's sundae was untouched; instead, he was eyeing Luna intently.

'I've got some news,' said William. He paused, as though waiting for some reaction, but Luna merely smiled. 'I'm – I'm going to move to France, to live with my mum's family.'

If this was life-changing news, Luna showed no signs of it. She simply said, 'Oh?'

William's face betrayed a flicker of disappointment. Neville imagined the boy had rehearsed this conversation over and over, and in each rendition, Luna's response had been more substantive than 'oh'.

'Yes,' continued William. 'Father's finally gambled away all the money so I'm being sent away. I know we always talked about Hog –'

At that moment, William was cut off by a group of rowdy boys. They threw a Quaffle around and, when one boy failed to catch it, it landed unceremoniously on Luna's sundae. Ice cream went flying everywhere; both Luna, who showed only mild surprise, and William, who was fuming, were covered. The boy who was at fault had the grace to look abashed, while his friends roared with laughter.

The boy retrieved the Quaffle and muttered his apologies. One of his friends yelled, 'Don't worry, it's only Loony Loveg –'

The friend was cut off as William, snarling and cat-like, pounced on him. The wrestling boys went crashing into an empty table.

' _Don't – you – dare!'_ hissed William, punctuating each word with a furious punch. Luna, with surprising grace for someone covered in ice cream, got up from her seat and edged past the boy's friends to where the brawl was in full swing.

William had raised his arm for another punch, one that would likely knock the boy unconscious, but he was stopped in his tracks by Luna's touch.

'Please don't,' said Luna. Her voice had lost some of its dream-like quality. William gave her a look of disbelief but dropped his raised fist.

Florean himself bustled into his shop and purveyed the destruction. After hearing both sides of the story, he banished the offending boys, cleaned up the mess with a flick of his wand and handed William and Luna a free ice cream each.

William, whose pale face was still flecked with tinges of red from the fight, said, 'Luna, do you really want to go to school with _that_ lot?' He nodded towards the shop door, which was still swinging backwards and forwards. Luna merely licked her ice cream.

'Come with me to Beauxbatons,' blurted William. He composed himself and continued. 'I was speaking to one of the professors there. He says it's much bigger than Hogwarts, it's got really cool grounds where we'd be free to play when we don't have lessons, and –'

'No,' said Luna simply.

William brushed off her rejection. 'Seriously, think about it. You and your dad could make a fresh start, it'll be as though –'

'I'm going to Hogwarts,' said Luna firmly. She resembled, fleetingly, the girl that had grabbed William's hand and dragged him to the swings years earlier.

'But Luna –'

Luna reached out and gently held William's hands in hers.

'I have to go, Will,' she said, barely above a whisper. Pain shimmered in her eyes. 'I'll be in Ravenclaw, just – just like she was.'

William bowed his head. 'I wish I could come with you,' he muttered.

Luna retracted her hands and the misty, dreamy expression returned 'This isn't the end,' she said, smiling. 'You'll come visit me on my birthdays.'

'Every year,' said William, 'forever.' His hands were still extended, rooted to the spot Luna had last touched them …

The ice cream parlour dissolved and Neville found himself in front of the Shrieking Shack. William was pacing furiously, leaving footsteps in the autumn leaves. His fear and anxiety was palpable, though it seemed to have no effect on Luna, who was lying on her back, gazing at the setting sun. They were both much older. The bruises on Luna's face told Neville it was the year of Voldemort's defeat, mere weeks before the Death Eaters would take Luna.

'You have to come with me,' begged William. He seemed unable to look upon the damage the Carrows had inflicted on Luna.

'And then what?' said Luna serenely. 'Hide away and hope that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named doesn't know how to cross water?'

'I can protect you and your father,' said William fiercely.

'They think they can get to Harry through me,' said Luna.

'You shouldn't be caught up in his mess in the first place!' snapped William, stamping his foot and sending leaves flying.

'You don't understand,' said Luna, smiling. 'My place is here. We're going to beat him.'

'Happy birthday,' said William bitterly, turning his back …

The scene took much longer to reform this time. A rush of colours and smells swept past and then, finally, Neville found himself in a playground. The swings were broken, the benches caked in graffiti, but it was unquestionably the same playground where Luna and William had first met.

William, now identical to the man Neville had seen at Luna's funeral, was sitting in the exact spot his mother had occupied years before. He tapped his feet anxiously and checked his watch every few seconds. Neville looked from William to the brown leaves that carpeted the ground and put two-and-two together. It was Luna's birthday.

A man with jet black hair and his red-headed, heavily pregnant wife walked past. William nodded curtly in recognition but turned back to his watch.

'She's not coming,' he muttered …

The scene shifted, and Neville found himself outside Harry and Luna's cottage at Godric's Hollow. The candles were lit, and the contents of the living room were clearly illuminated against the pitch black night. Harry and Luna were curled up on the flowery couch in front of the fire with Alice fast asleep beside them. The vines along the wall glowed ethereally in the flickering light of the fire.

William stood just outside the gate, most of his face hidden underneath a dark hood. Neville could only make out Harry and Luna reflected in his glasses, and pearly tears running slowly down his cheeks …

Now William was face to face with Hermione in an immaculately tidy office Neville recognised as hers. Hermione's face was, for the first time, blank and unconcerned.

'You will go to Luna's cottage,' muttered William, 'and suggest that they move home and refurnish. It will help Harry move on from his tragic past. This is your idea, and the healthiest thing for everyone. Understood?'

'Yes,' said Hermione, her voice robotic, her eyes unfocused …

Now Neville was back at Godric's Hollow; the sun was disappearing behind Harry and Luna's cottage. The sky was streaked with red. The man with jet black hair William had greeted at the playground was carefully carrying a large box through the open door of Harry and Luna's cottage. Moments later, he re-emerged and came to stand by William, whose face was set, determined.

'You checked nobody was at home, Jack?' said William.

'Yes,' said Jack. There was a very slight robotic element to his voice: he was under the Imperius Curse.

William raised his wand and muttered, _'Homenum Revelio!'_

When nothing happened, William nodded at Jack.

As Jack pressed a button on the Muggle gadget he was holding, the fireplace flashed green and Luna stepped out.

'NO!' screamed William.

Luna had a split second to lock eyes with William. Her protuberant eyes widened a fraction and then –

BOOM!

Neville was sent flying by a wave of brutal, searing heat …

And landed in a small bathroom. Empty bottles of Firewhiskey were strewn across the floor; some had cracked or smashed altogether, and glass glittered in the mizzled light of the dying candles.

With a bang, the bathroom door burst open with such force, it nearly swung clean off its hinges. Neville barely recognised the man who stumbled into the room. William's eyes were blood-shot red and unfocused; his hair was wild and unkempt; there were small black holes across his chest where he had clearly self-harmed. He veered towards the bathtub, paying no heed to the gashes forming on his feet as he stepped on broken glass.

William climbed into the bathroom and lay still; he was beyond tears, beyond mere grief. Neville notice for the first time that he had a small, silver dagger in his hand.

William turned his eyes to the ceiling and whispered, 'I'm sorry.'

He brought the knife down across his wrist … but nothing happened. He tried again. And again. And again.

'No!' he howled, more animal than human …

William was in his office delicately leafing through a photo album. Tears ran freely down his cheeks as he examined each picture in turn. Neville edged closer and saw the photos more clearly: William and Luna in the park, William and Luna at the seaside, every picture was of William and Luna. William appeared in better shape than during his attempted suicide, but the dark rings under his eyes spoke of a lack of sleep.

A knock came on the door; William hid the photo album and brushed away the tears. Harry entered, looking just as restless and sleep-deprived as his Healer. They exchanged words about how Harry met Luna met, and what they had seen in each other. The conversation became heated and William, clearly at the end of his nerve, accused Harry of trying to resurrect Luna. In a flash, they were nose to nose, and Harry looked as though he wanted to kill William.

William, to his credit, did not flinch. Instead, he gave Harry the same fierce look he had given Luna's mother when she had pitied William's mother. 'Don't you dare!' William shouted. 'Don't you _dare_ befoul her memory!'

'These sessions are over,' whispered Harry, who promptly stormed out.

Harry had barely left the room when William began destroying his office in a flying rage. Patient files went flying, the desk was ripped apart and the grandfather clock hurtled through the window. William had realised he could not help Luna through Harry, Neville knew; he had failed in his one purpose in life.

Alone amongst the wreckage, William sank to his knees and cast his eyes to the ceiling. 'I tried Luna!' he cried. 'I tried … but there's only one way he'll understand … I know that now … he'll be where you rest … I'll do it there …'

And with that, Neville rose out of the Pensieve and lay face down in the exact spot William had made that last pronouncement.


	18. The Vow

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on the characters and world created by JK Rowling. Anything you do not recognise is my own creation. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

– CHAPTER EIGHTEEN –

 _ **The Vow**_

* * *

Neville picked himself up off William's office floor and dropped into the leather couch Harry had vacated in the memory he had just seen. The truth of what he had just witnessed pressed hard on him. His mind whirred as he tried to click it all into place.

Luna … she was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Taken, not by murder, but by mere accident, much like her mother decades previous. William's plan to restore the Luna he had once known, the wickedly enchanting girl, was done with the best of intentions. But it had the worst possible outcome.

And Harry would be looking for William.

'What did you find out?'

Ron was looking from the Pensive to Neville, eyes alight with curiosity. Neville considered Ron for long moments. Ron had to know the truth about Harry; after all, Harry might enlist Ron to find William just as easily as Neville had.

'You might want to be sitting down for this,' said Neville. A crease formed between Ron's brows, but he did as he was told. 'Harry's – Harry's not in his right mind, Ron.'

A rumble of thunder shook the office and large drops of rain began to patter against the window.

'You mean the _Prophet's_ got it right?' asked Ron.

'In essence, yes.' Neville paused for a moment and considered how he was going to explain such a complex idea to Ron who, even before bludgeoning himself with alcohol, was never the sharpest knife in the drawer. 'You remember what Harry did, after the Battle of Hogwarts?'

'Jetted off with Luna, didn't he?'

Neville nodded. 'Exactly. At the time, none of us really wondered why he chose Luna, of all people. I guess we were all wrapped up in the tragedy of it all.'

'He always liked Luna,' said Ron slowly.

There was a silence, punctuated only by the lash of water against glass.

'Yes,' admitted Neville, 'but he loved your sister.' Ron closed his eyes for a moment. 'So why run off with Luna?'

'I guess … I guess they had some stuff in common. Y'know, like how they could see Thestrals before anyone else …'

'Exactly! He saw himself in Luna; or rather, he saw the version of himself that he wanted to see.'

'You're not making any sense, mate.'

Neville got off the couch and started pacing furiously. It was all starting to come together; all of it.

'Don't you see, Ron? Luna lost her mum under horrific circumstances, and along came this … this self-defence mechanism she has. It more or less protected her from feeling that way ever again. Think back to when you were trapped in Malfoy Manor. How did she seem? Her life was in constant danger, and she had no idea if her father was dead or alive. Did she seem panicked?'

'No … she was pretty calm …'

Neville stopped pacing and rounded on Ron. 'And isn't that _exactly_ how Harry would have wanted to feel after the battle: calm, numb, and unaffected.'

'You're making him sound insane …'

The tips of Ron's ears reddened at the suggestion that his former best friend was not all there, but Neville pressed on. 'So he ran off to escape his feelings. And Luna – well, she's been doing that for years, so she wasn't about to say no.'

'But they came back,' said Ron. 'I remember 'cos he picked me up a few times … you know, after … '

'Yeah, they came back to England, but where did they go?'

'Godric's Hollow …'

'Godric's Hollow. The house where Harry lost both his parents. Is that what a healthy person does, Ron? It would be like you pitching a tent in the Great Hall! So they make Godric's Hollow their home and then who does Harry befriend? Me and Bill, the two broken boys.'

Neville chuckled bitterly. 'I was so happy to be included for once that I was completely blind to what was happening to Harry –'

'You've been included before –' started Ron hotly, but Neville cut him off.

'No, Ron, I wasn't. Sure, I've tagged along a few times, but I never really had a proper friend. That is, until Harry came back from his travels. I never really asked myself _why_ he would suddenly befriend me. It's the Luna decision all over again. But despite all that, the only thing _really_ keeping him together is –'

'Luna,' finished Ron.

'Without Luna and the fantasy world they created together, he cracks.'

'But what about Ginny?' said Ron, groping for any evidence that Harry had not lost it. 'You said he visits Ginny every week.'

'Guilt,' said Neville simply.

'But … what's this got to do with –'

' _Ron …'_

The strained voice came, not from the two men in the room, but from somewhere inside Ron's robes. Neville whirled around, bewildered; it sounded like …

'Hermione!'

Ron frantically reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a cigarette lighter. 'What's wrong?' said Neville.

'It's Hermione,' said Ron. 'She's … she's in trouble.'

A cold trickle ran down Neville's back. This had something to do with Harry; he just knew it.

'Can you get to her?' said Neville.

Ron nodded. A fierce look passed over his face and, for the first time in ten years, Neville truly saw the man he had fought alongside at the Battle of Hogwarts. 'You'll come with me?' said Ron.

Neville nodded. 'One sec,' said Neville, as an idea came to him. He strode over to the shelf closest to William's desk. Blue files lined it; each had a white tab with a name on it.

'Hurry up!' snapped Ron.

' _Accio_ Harry's file,' said Neville, and one of the files flew from the shelf and into Neville's hand. Neville pocketed it.

Ron clicked the cigarette lighter and William's office plunged into darkness. A pulsing blue light suddenly appeared just outside the frosted window. Just as Neville began to wonder whether it had always been there, it floated over to Ron sunk in to his chest.

'Ron, what –'

'Taken my arm,' ordered Ron. Neville hesitantly did as he was told and they Disapparated.

They landed in one of the strangest places Neville had ever seen. They were high up; so high that wispy clouds were drifting by. The air was thin and dry.

'Hermione!' yelled Ron, turning this way and that.

A clump of clouds floated away to reveal a shabby stone hut. By its entrance lay an old man and –

'Hermione!'

Ron sprinted to where Hermione lay. Her robes were soaked and blood oozed like lava from wounds across her chest and mingled with the red earth. Ron delicately placed her neck on his lap and tried to staunch the wound with his fingers, wand forgotten in his shock.

Hermione turned her pale face up to Ron. Tears formed in the corner of her eyes, but she did not have the strength to squeeze them out.

'Hermione … Hermione …'

Neville desperately traced his wand across her wounds and tried to stop the blood. But she had lost so much already, and he did not recognise the curse that had done it.

Ron stroked her face, his own twisted with anguish. Hermione opened her mouth and an awful gurgling issued from her throat.

'Harry …'

'W – What?' whispered Ron. Neville felt as though he had been punched in the chest.

Hermione closed her eyes and seemed to be mustering all her energy.

'It … was … Harry …'

All the strength left her and her head dropped into Ron's lap. Ron let out a terrible shriek that spoke of more than rage, more than sorrow, more than ten years of regret. It was the cry of a man who had lost everything. And then Ron's face hardened as he got to his feet. There was only pure loathing left. It was the same look Neville had seen on Harry's face at Luna's funeral.

'Ron … '

'I'm going to kill him,' snarled Ron. Before Neville could stop him, Ron Disapparated.

Neville crouched down next to Hermione. Miraculously, her chest was still faintly rising and falling. She was still alive. He knew international Apparition could kill her, but Neville had no choice. He had no idea where the nearest hospital was. He had no idea _where_ he was. Neville picked Hermione up – she was remarkably light. Ensuring she was as comfortable as possible, he Disapparated …

… And Apparated into a waiting room full of Aurors.

In the split second it took the Aurors to realise Neville had appeared in their midst, Neville lay Hermione gently across three chairs and Disapparated.

Neville reappeared in the front seat of his car outside his home. His heart was racing. Harry had all but killed Hermione. Why? What in Merlin's name were they doing at the top of a mountain? Neville remembered that there had been an old man there, and regretted for a moment not bringing him along for questioning. But no, he thought, side-along Apparition with two passengers definitely _would_ have killed Hermione.

Hermione … probably dead. She was the most brilliant witch of the generation, but even she could not stop Harry. What chance did he, Neville, have? How many more would he lose?

It all hit him at once and he began smashing his fists against the wheel. Right hook, left hook, right hook. The pain that began coursing up his arms was welcome. He did not care, then. Did not care if Muggles saw him. Did not care if he smashed the car to pieces. He just wanted to escape the cruel merry-go-round of death and loss.

Finally, Neville's head fell into his hands. Numbness spread through him like a parasite. Is this how Luna felt? Empty? How could she stand it? If he did not have Alice, Neville did not know if he could keep going …

Alice …

He knew he should go to her now, pack up their things and leave the country. If he kept going down this road, kept chasing Harry, there was only one way it would end. In his mind's eye, he saw the jet of golden fire that had destroyed Lazarus' wand. What could he do in the face of such power? What would become of his daughter if it were Neville bleeding out in the middle of nowhere?

But then … if Neville fled, who would be next on Harry's kill list? Ron, who was now hell-bent on finding his former best friend. Ron had no idea what he was up against. William, too, was in grave danger; though Neville owed the man nothing, he could not stand aside and allow Harry to murder William.

Neville had no choice but to finish what he had started.

Before he did, Neville would see Alice, just in case this was the last time. He thought of Bill and Fleur's house and Disapparated.

Neville stood outside Bill's house for a while and allowed the rain to hit him. After all that had changed since his last visit, Neville was glad to see that number forty-five had not. The small, yellow bungalow was quirky as ever; it was almost defiantly cheerful. It gave Neville unspeakable comfort to know that his daughter was in there, hidden by the Fidelius Charm he controlled.

Neville rapped the door with his knuckle, though he knew the protective charms would have alerted Bill and Fleur to his presence. Fleur, radiant as ever, opened the door and let him in.

'Neville,' she cried, kissing him on either cheek, 'this is a pleasant surprise.'

Fleur was so heavily pregnant that she waddled from side to side as she led him into the living room. When he had taken a seat on the leather couch, she seemed to see him for the first time.

'What has happened to you?' gasped Fleur.

Neville did not know how to reply. She deserved the truth – she had already been victim to Harry – but Neville did not know if he had the energy to explain it.

'Hermione's been attacked,' said Neville. He realised that his voice was hard and cold. 'She's in St Mungo's fighting for her life. It was the same wizard who attacked your family.'

Stricken, Fleur brought her hand up to her mouth. 'How is this possible?'

'She was betrayed … by someone close to her. Someone she trusted.'

Fleur's grief suddenly became anger. 'Who is this traitor? Why have the Aurors not found him?'

'He's proving to be very elusive and extremely dangerous. There's no telling when he will brought to justice. Where's Bill?'

'He has gone shopping for food.' Taking one look at Neville's face, she hastily added, 'He is under disguise, do not worry. And my husband can take good care of himself. But we must visit Hermione in hospital, Neville!'

'That's out of the question,' said Neville quietly, 'it's far too dangerous.'

'And what about my baby?' she said, pointing to her enormous stomach. 'We must relax the Fidelius Charm before he is born!'

Neville sighed; he had completely overlooked the logistics of Fleur's pregnancy.

'We'll bring him to justice soon,' said Neville, 'one way or the other.'

'You mean the Aurors will?' said Fleur, her eyes narrowed shrewdly.

'Of course,' said Neville. 'Listen, Fleur, there's a chance that this maniac might get to me like he did Hermione –'

'Then stay here where it is safe!'

'I told you; the Aurors want to use me as bait. It's the best chance of catching this wizard. They are affording me every kind of protection, but there's always a chance of something going wrong. If … If the worst happens, Gringotts have a copy of my vault key, which will pass directly to Alice. My will currently specifies that Harry and Luna would be her guardians in their roles as godparents, but –'

'If that happens – which it will not! – we will take her,' said Fleur firmly.

Neville shook his head. 'You are kind, but I could never ask that of you. My wish is for Alice to go to my last living relative: Andromeda.' Fleur looked ready to argue but Neville raised his hand. 'It'll never happen, Fleur, so it's not worth arguing about, right? Just promise me you'll present your memory of this conversation to the Ministry.' Fleur nodded reluctantly.

'Is Alice asleep?' asked Neville.

'Yes, but I can wake her, if you wish.'

Fleur started the monumental struggle of getting out of her chair, but Neville raised a hand to stop her. 'Don't get up, I just want to see her, then I'll be out of your hair.'

'You are not staying?' said Fleur, affronted.

'I can't,' said Neville, 'the Aurors want me to be visible.'

Neville left the living room and took the left-hand stairs, making sure not to make too much noise. He guessed Alice would be sleeping in Dom's bedroom, the first on the left. He was right. There were two single beds on either side of a bedside cabinet. Dom was instantly recognisable: unlike her sister Victoire, she had inherited the Weasley red hair.

Neville crept over and knelt beside Alice's bed. He stroked her blonde hair, which had for so long reminded Neville of his darling Hannah. But, for the first time, Neville saw Luna. She was not much younger than Luna had been that day, sitting in a pool of her mother's blood. Unbidden, an image of Alice came to him, holding Neville's blood-stained robes, staring off into the distance.

But Neville had a promise to keep. He would not allow his daughter, so bright and effervescent, to end up like Luna.

Neville could have stayed there for the rest of his life, drinking in every feature; the small button nose, the round pink face; all her mother in miniature, except for her eyes. He would see those eyes again. He had promised.

Neville leant in and whispered, 'Your father loves you.' He kissed her forehead and rose to his feet. He took one last, long look at her before ripping his eyes away.

He had a job to do.

Neville silently left the room and made for the guest bedroom which, he knew, would be empty. The room was similar in size and dimension to Dom's room, except with one bed in the centre of the room rather than two.

Neville sat on the bed and took out the casefile he had stolen from William's office.

William's handwriting was spidery, grubby and nigh-on illegible. Neville's heart sunk as he tried, and failed, to decipher the sentences. There were large blotches where some liquid – tears, probably – had smudged the ink. Neville could make out the occasional word: 'unstable', 'denial' and 'dangerous', but not enough to deduce where Harry could be. Neville chucked the file in frustration, sending loose parchment flying.

Then it hit him: he did not need to find Harry; he only needed to find William. Wherever William was, Harry was sure to follow.

' _He'll be where you rest … I'll do it there …'_

William would be at Luna's grave, laying some kind of trap for Harry. Neville got to his feet. He had a destination; he only hoped he would not be too late.


	19. The Graveyard

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on the characters and world created by JK Rowling. Anything you do not recognise is my own creation. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

– CHAPTER NINETEEN –

 _ **The Graveyard**_

* * *

I stand at the kissing gate that guards Luna's resting place, overcome with that cold sense of purpose that precedes death. My hand reaches out of my invisibility cloak and touches the freezing surface of the handle. I watch as drops of rain roll down my sleeve, across my skin and onto the dripping gate, the last of tonight's downpour. My heart beats frantically; it alone senses the impending danger. It alone knows that the time has come.

I turn the handle and enter. Nothing, not even the desperate tattoo in my chest, will turn me from my purpose. My only regret is that I will not get a chance to kill Sayer. All those times he had sat feet from me, smiling his smug smile, all missed opportunities. But it does not matter now. He may have had her in life but I alone will have her in death.

The wind picks up the fallen leaves around my ankles and carries them down the lane, past the graves I know so well. Thinking I hear a fell voice in the air, I halt my steady funeral march. I look this way and that, ears pricked. But there is nobody. Nobody but the old Muggle man that trails behind me. But he is firmly under my control; his cataract-ridden eyes are blank and unfocused. He is blissfully unaware that his death will pay for life.

I continue my progress, deeper and deeper into the graveyard. I turn the Resurrection Stone in my hand and picture that the lane is flanked on both sides by loved ones. In my mind's eye, they nod as I pass them, quietly approving of what I have come to do: James, precisely the same height as me with glasses and messy hair; Lily, long red hair with proud, brilliant green eyes; Sirius, tall and handsome and reckless; Lupin, shabby and weather-worn but full of love; and Dumbledore, smiling widest of them all, his blue eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles. They form a guard of honour that leads to her grave where a shadowy figure waits. I imagine it is Luna, delighted to find that I have not given up on her, even in death.

But it is not Luna.

I order the old man to stop and edge forwards. All I can hear is the rustle of autumn leaves that run past like a whistling stream. As the leaves caress the stranger's ankles, I recognise the crouching figure.

'Sayer …' I whisper, barely able to contain myself.

Sayer stands up and looks straight at me; not through me, through the mythical cloak that none can penetrate, but right _at_ me. I emerge from beneath my birth right and Sayer does not betray a flicker of surprise.

'I knew you would come,' he says.

I go to disarm him, but realise that he does not have a wand with him. He has delivered himself to me, like a lamb to the slaughter. I raise my Elder Wand; rather than defend himself, he raises his hand.

'Before you do it,' he says, 'I want to explain some things.' I prowl around him until I am on the higher ground. 'I'm unarmed, Harry. You have nothing to fear from me, except the truth.'

The _truth._ The word pierces me with the ferocity of a hundred searing knifes. 'I know the truth,' I spit. 'You killed her.'

I expect Sayer to recoil in anger, to fight the accusation, but he simply nods, his pale face betraying nothing but pain. 'I don't deny it,' he says quietly. 'But before you kill me, there are some things you need to know.'

'This isn't one of your Healer sessions! I'm not at your mercy anymore.'

Sayer shakes his head slowly, and I am surprised to see that he beholds me with something akin to pity. Not once do his eyes fall on my wand.

'Wrong as usual, Harry. I'm guessing you know by now that Luna and I grew up together.' It was not a question. It hits me that this is the first time I have heard him say her name. The familiarity and tenderness with which he says it sends fresh waves of anger coursing through me.

'Yeah, and you loved her.'

Sayer smiles sadly. 'Of course I did. Who couldn't … I'd never come across anyone so … so wild and energetic and fierce –'

'She was nothing like that!'

'But she was, Harry. You've never truly known Luna; the Luna you met and fell in love with was damaged – almost beyond repair – by the death of her mother.'

I feel my eyes narrow as each poisonous lie slithers out of his tongue. 'She got over her mum's death,' I say. 'Sure, there were times when she got sad thinking about it –' I recall the rare days when Luna would lock herself in her room and refuse to speak to me, 'but it was all behind her.'

'I tried to tell you in our first session, Harry: people deal with loss in different ways. Your coping mechanism brought you here, on the edge of murder. But Luna had a very different reaction –'

'Luna's mother died when she was a kid! You murdered Luna a few weeks ago! Are you seriously trying to compare –'

'No, I wouldn't dare compare the two; childhood loss is far more tragic –'

'My parents died when I was baby. So, in your world, I'm also "damaged": moping about like some tragic, scarred orphan …'

'Well, yes, but that's by-the-by. What Luna went through was unimaginable; it's a wonder she didn't become more of a sociopath –'

My anger bubbles over and I swoop down on him. We are almost nose to nose and I can see nothing but his pale eyes as my Elder Wand digs into his ribs.

'Insult her one more time,' I breathe.

Sayer takes a step away from me and stumbles backwards over Luna's gravestone, landing with a squelch on a muddy, waterlogged bed of leaves. He makes no attempt to get up, or wipe away the mud that splatters across his face. He simply looks up at me without a hint of fear.

'You never asked Luna how her mother died, did you?' he says.

'Of course I did,' I say, looming over him. 'Spell experimentation gone wrong, she said.'

Sayer starts shaking and, for a second, I think he is finally registering fear. But then I see the tears leak from his eyes and carve pale canals through his mud-streaked face.

'I was the first one to find her that night,' he says, his voice trembling. 'One minute, she's playing in the front garden, the next, she's holding the only thing left of her mother: her bloody dress! Can you imagine what that's like for a child?' I look deep into his eyes and, for the first time, Sayer's Occlumency has dropped. I see the truth of his words: a small girl, her once blonde hair stained red, clutches a sodden dress.

'The Luna I knew died that night. She had nobody to talk to. You met her father; nobody doubted his love, but he was not a fit carer. And then I was sent to France by my family. So she buried the reality of what had happened and constructed an elaborate fantasy world. She needed help, but even if her father had taken her to St Mungo's, there was _nobody_ who could give it to her! So –'

'– You became a Mind Healer,' I finish.

'Yes,' says Sayer, brushing the last of his tears away. 'Long before Hermione Granger ever dreamed up the Mind Healer division, I was in America learning and honing the art of Mind Healing. I spent years reading up on Muggle techniques and testing them in wizarding environments. I became skilled in Mind Magic, like Occlumency and Legilimency, and discovered ways of using Pensieves that perhaps nobody else had ever thought of. And then, last year, when I heard of your Mind Healing project, I returned to England, ready to take on Luna as my first patient.'

A silence falls between us, punctuated only by the howl of the wind. Sayer's eyes are fixed on a point beyond my shoulder, lost in thought.

'You wanted her to love you.' I throw the accusation at him like a curse.

'Yes,' he says, 'even though a part of me knew, in my heart of hearts, that she never thought of me the way I thought of her. I waited until her birthday. We always saw each other on her birthday – even at Hogwarts, we found a way to meet, even if it was just a two-way mirror or a firecall.'

I recall how I was never able to surprise Luna on her birthday. Every year, without fail, she would disappear for hours and return only in the evening. Every time I had asked her where she was, she would simply shake her head and change the subject. So this was why.

'I waited for her at our usual spot, but she never came.' Sayer's voice wavers; he takes a deep breath and continues. 'I went looking for her, but couldn't find your house –'

'My protective enchantments got in the way,' I say. 'So you used your Healer privileges to access the register.'

Sayer nods. 'The register doesn't post a date, so I figured that by the time anyone checked it, Luna would be my patient and me accessing it wouldn't raise any eyebrows. What I found at your house shocked me, Harry. Luna had recreated exactly the room her mother was killed in.'

'What?'

'Your living room,' says Sayer imploringly, 'was a mausoleum.'

I picture in my mind's eye the day we redecorated. Luna had been a woman possessed: she had hired an Archiwizard to change the dimensions of the living room so it met her exact specifications; she had spent hours tapping the upholstery so it was the perfect colour; and, despite my protests, had insisted on covering the walls with plants. It was the first, and last, time I had seen her so animated and determined.

And, finally, I understand why Luna died.

'You didn't think anyone was home,' I say, barely above a whisper. 'You wanted to destroy the room.'

Sayer's lip trembles and his eyes are shining with tears again. 'W – When I saw what I had done … I could not face it. After covering my tracks with Fiendfyre and wiping poor Jack's memory, I tried to end it all, but my magic would not let me. It was a sign; I had to atone. And the only way I could think of was to help you … s – she would have wanted that.

'But you didn't want to be healed. At every turn, you refused my help. Any time we brushed up against what was really going on with you, you would fly off the handle. It took me a while to get there, but I realised that while you were blinded by vengeance and thoughts of necromancy, I could never do you any good.'

I edge closer to him; a sliver of moonlight bursts through the clouds and the spectral glow exposes Sayer's anguish, his longing for death. The moment, we both know, is seconds away.

'Why did you oppose my vengeance?' I breathe. 'Why stand in the way of a man reuniting with his wife?'

'I was fulfilling Luna's wishes,' says Sayer. His chest is rising and falling faster and faster.

'What?'

'We spoke once about what she wanted if the worst were to happen –'

'Lies …'

'She wanted you to be happy, Harry. She didn't want you to dwell on the past; "he needs to find someone like Ginny", she'd said.'

'Lies!'

'But the more I spoke to you, the more I realised that it was impossible for you to do that without getting closure. It was no good me telling you these things, it had to come from the source.' His voice falters and his breathing becomes shallower. 'After you stormed out of our last session, it occurred to me that I could heal both you and Luna with one act: m – my death.

'You once let slip that you spoke to Dumbledore in King's Cross. I found no evidence that he had ever visited the platform as Headmaster. Hermione Granger, under Veritaserum, told me what had happened when He Who Must Not Be Named used the Killing Curse against you. She told me all about Horcruxes and her theories about how you came to talk to Dumbledore that night. Given what I knew about your frame of mind, it occurred to me that you might try and recreate those conditions for a chance to talk to Luna. That's why you've brought that Muggle.'

Sayer points a shaky finger over my shoulder where the old Muggle man is obediently standing sentinel, blissfully unaware of the events unfolding before him.

'Well, you can let that Muggle go,' says Sayer. 'He's innocent, I'm not.' Sayer lays his head to rest on the bed of leaves. 'Do it, Harry.'

The man who murdered Luna, accident or not, lays at my feet, shaking slightly in the autumn wind. I rip Luna's wedding ring from my index finger, which tears freshly-healed skin with it. I ignore the blood that oozes from the place the ring had been. What a perfect Horcrux this will make.

I carefully aim my Elder Wand at Sayer, whose eyes are closed; he could be sleeping. His mouth curves into a small smile.

' _Avada Kedavra!'_

A burst of brilliant green light illuminates the graveyard like a flash of lightning.

* * *

Neville was at the open kissing gate when a burst of green lit up a distant part of the graveyard. Was he too late? Had Harry killed William? Neville drew his wand and broke into a run, outpacing the whirling stream of autumn leaves. He took a shortcut, vaulting over the graves of Hannah's ancestors, and made straight for the source of the Killing Curse.

The shrieks of a voice Neville knew well filled the air; the wind seemed to carry them through his eardrums and into his very soul. Neville began sprinting as fast as his legs could carry him. So fast, he almost bowled over an old man that appeared out of the darkness.

' _Stupefy!'_ wheezed Neville.

The old man crumpled to the floor and Neville bent over double to catch his breath. Blood was pounding in his ears; whether through the fervent drum of his heart, or fear of what he would find, he did not know.

Neville looked to his left. His blood froze.

William Sayer was lying spread-eagled on a muddy bed of leaves, eyes closed but unmistakeably dead. Neville was too late. But it was not William's body that terrified Neville.

Harry was shakily making his way to his feet. In the pearly light of the moon, Neville saw that his skin was deathly white and waxen, his black robes hung off a skeletally thin frame, and his eyes were red and fixed hungrily on Neville.

Neville's world came crashing down around him. To suspect was one thing, but to see the truth of it was quite another. The Boy Who Lived, the hero of the wizarding world, the man Neville looked up to, cared for, and came to love as a brother, had become a Dark Lord.

The thought hit him with the force of a steam train. There was no way back now, no way to reform him. The whole world would soon know it: Alice, the Weasleys … Teddy. Unless Neville did his duty. Harry was the target of his investigation, and there was only one way to close a case.

Neville got to his feet and raised his wand.

Harry made no attempt to defend himself. Neville could see the Elder Wand in his hand, recognisable even from where he stood. But Harry simply smiled and spread his arms as if waiting for an embrace.

The words began to form on his lips when a thought crossed his mind: _why isn't he fighting back?_ With one flick of his wand, Harry could destroy Neville's one weapon. He had seen, in Lazarus' memory, Harry do it quicker than the blink of an eye. _Never do what your enemy wants of you_. Neville lowered his wand.

'Do your job, Neville,' said Harry. His voice was higher and colder than Neville had ever heard it. The sound of it raised the hairs on the back of Neville's neck.

How many times had Harry given him orders? How many times had Neville jumped at the chance to follow them? But not this time.

'I'm going to take you in,' said Neville.

Harry's red eyes narrowed dangerously. 'That's not how it works. You're not an Auror. Your job is to neutralise the target.'

 _Stupefy!_

Neville's spell met an invisible barrier cast with such strength that Neville was knocked off his feet. The air crackled with the intensity of the spell. Neville rose to his feet; he had not even seen Harry wave his wand.

'You're a good wizard, Neville,' said Harry, who stood motionless, 'but there's only one way you're bringing me to justice.'

 _Glisseo!_

Neville's charm snuck underneath Harry's shield and transformed the grass underneath his feet into dangerous, smooth ground. As Harry lost his footing, Neville ordered a tornado of leaves to surround Harry and, with a final jab of his wand, fiery red ropes snaked their way around where Harry was falling.

In a flash of searing white light, Harry was gone and Neville's binding curse was squeezing air.

'You have to aim to kill,' whispered Harry's voice from behind him.

Neville whirled around and saw Harry calmly emerging from behind a large stone cross, not a scratch on him.

Neville held his wand aloft and brought it down like a knife. The leaves whistled dangerously as they darted past him, razor sharp, heading straight at Harry, who was gone in a whirling of his cloak. Neville's ears pricked and instinct took over as he dove behind a nearby gravestone. It shattered with the sound of a gunshot as a spell hit it and shards of rock went flying. Before they could settle, Neville twirled his wand and a fog of debris surrounded him, blocking him from view.

'So you're fighting back!' called Neville. He could just about make out Harry's silhouette through the swirling mass of rock and dust.

'When you realise your life's in danger, you'll strike me down,' said Harry calmly.

Two spells soared towards Neville almost at the same time. He transfigured his cloud of debris into a stone shield, which deflected the spells and disappeared.

'You're not going to destroy my wand like you did the others?' shouted Neville.

Neville circled his wand above head like a lasso and a huge, searing ring of fire exploded forth and hurtled at Harry, surrounding him from all sides. The ground cracked and scorched in its wake. As it closed in on Harry, Neville capered and from the fire emerged molten steel that immediately solidified. Neville threw spell after spell at it, making it impossible to escape from.

'That's why I won't destroy your wand.'

Harry's voice came from the right. He was standing, unscathed, by Sayer's body.

 _Expulso!_

Blue light surged out of Neville's wand but was deflected by Harry's shield charm on to Luna's gravestone. The stone exploded with a bang. Harry yelled as though the spell had pierced his heart and for a fraction of a second was staring aghast as though he could not believe what had happened.

A fraction of a second was all Neville needed.

 _Expelliarmus!_

The Elder Wand shot out of its former master's hand and spun in the air, ethereal in the moonlight, straight into Neville's grasp.

'No!' shrieked Harry.

 _Stupefy!_

Neville's jet of red light soared at Harry, destined to meet its mark, but was stopped by an invisible shield, weaker than the ones that had come before. Harry had his old wand in his hand. He was breathing heavily and his blood red eyes held nothing but malice.

Harry slashed his wand this way and that and a barrage of spells came raining down on Neville who only had time to raise his own; not the one given to him by Ollivander, but the Elder Wand. The spells simply vanished from existence before they reached him.

Fear registered on Harry's face for the first time. The wand he had so callously and selfishly ripped from Dumbledore's tomb was turning on him.

' _Avada Kedavra!'_ snarled Harry.

Neville dove to one side and boiled over with hot rage. Harry, the man he had loved, the man he had worked with for the best part of a decade, the man he had named godfather to his only daughter, sought to make Alice an orphan.

' _Daddy, promise me you'll never die.'_

In his white hot fury, Neville turned the Elder Wand on Harry and wanted nothing more than to fulfil that promise by any means necessary. The Elder Wand bucked in his hand and a golden jet of fire shot out, heading straight for Harry's holly wand, the brother of Lord Voldemort's. There was a final crack as the spell met his target and Harry's wand was no more.

Neville marched up to Harry, who had fallen to his knees, his crimson eyes on the place his wand had been. How many targets had Neville approached like this, disarmed and ready for the slaughter. All it took was two words …

But Neville would not give Harry, the man who had kidnapped Alice, killed Hermione, and now tried to kill Neville, the satisfaction of death. He would not give Harry what he wanted. He would hand Harry to the Ministry.

Neville was ready to stun Harry when his side exploded and the ground rushed up to meet him. He could taste blood in his mouth. His wands were no longer in his hands. He had strength enough only to turn his head.

Ron, his face red and masked by angry tears, had dug the tip of his wand into Harry's forehead, right above the faded scar.

'YOU KILLED HER!' Ron yelled, his chest heaving and flecks of spit, or tears, or sweat flying.

Harry turned his face up to Ron, cold and without emotion.

'I killed her,' said Harry calmly.

Neville tried to move, tried to cry out to Ron, but his body was broken and his voice barely audible above the howling wind.

A shard of moonlight suddenly bathed across Ron's face: in that moment he was a wild, wounded hound ready to strike. And strike he did.

' _AVADA KEDAVRA!'_


	20. King's Cross Again

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on the characters and world created by JK Rowling. Anything you do not recognise is my own creation. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

– CHAPTER TWENTY –

 _ **King's Cross Again**_

* * *

The first sign that I exist is the pain.

It is not the searing pain of the Cruciatus Curse, or the hollow pain of losing a loved one: it is something more profound. It is as though the pain is part of my normal faculties: the heart pumps blood around the body, the lungs facilitate breathing and the skin throbs with relentless waves of prickly pain. I am not debilitated by it, but it makes certain that I am aware that it is there.

Doing my utmost to ignore the agony of being, I reach out with my senses. I lie on some surface; it is neither hot nor cold, but precisely the temperature of my own skin. It is difficult to know when my own body ends and when the surface begins. With an effort, I open my eyes.

I am alone in a bright mist, cloudy vapour that resembles the contents of a Pensieve, neither liquid nor gas. I know at once where I am; it is a place I have visited only once before: King's Cross, the entrance to the land of the dead.

I want to smile. My brain sends its signal down to my cheek muscles, but they do not comply. It is as though they have lost the ability to do so. No matter. I have done it. Soon I will be reunited with my darling Luna.

I stand up and the volume of pain from my burning skin is dialled up. But I am no stranger to pain. I grit my teeth and bear it. A noise pierces the misty nothingness: something is flailing and flapping and struggling. Each sound stabs me like a knife and fills me with shame. I think I know what it is, but I do not want to see it. I suddenly feel exposed in my nakedness. I wish I were clothed.

Nothing happens.

I look around expecting, any minute, for robes to appear. Instead, my surroundings invent themselves as I look upon them. I am once more in the wide, open platform hall of King's Cross, stood underneath the domed glass ceiling.

The source of the noise, the thing that I want to avoid, the thing that fills me with cold dread, lies on the ground. It is not stuffed under a seat, but is before me in clear view: a small, naked child, its skin raw and rough, a lightning-shaped scar visible on its forehead. I am filled with utter revulsion. The pain in my skin dies. There is nothing to distract me from the horror of the thing that writhes before me. I try to back away, but my legs do not obey my instruction. I try to look away, but my neck stays still.

'Harry.'

A voice, so familiar to me, and yet unlike it had ever been in life, comes out of the nothingness. The mist shifts and Luna, naked as I am, walks towards me. She comes to a stop some distance from me and my mangled soul.

I take her in hungrily. She is exactly as I remember her: those beautiful, wide eyes and that long, blonde hair. And yet … something is off. She is not smiling. Quite the opposite. There is a weighty sadness about her that I never saw in life.

'Harry,' she repeats, 'what have you done?'

I try to go to her, to embrace her, to kiss every inch of her skin, but my legs remain rigid.

'I've come for you, my love,' I whisper.

'Come for me?' she says. Her voice has lost the dreamy, sing-song quality it once had.

'I promised I'd never abandon you,' I say imploringly, 'in sickness or in health. We're bonded forever, you and me –'

'For life,' corrects Luna, 'we're bonded for life, Harry.'

Hearing her say my name sends tingles down my spine; but it is not the warm thrill that I felt in life, it is more of an arctic chill. She casts her gaze down at the thrashing child and we both watch it for long minutes.

'You shouldn't have died,' I say, my voice quivering, 'y – you shouldn't have left me …'

I realise that I sound like a petulant child, but the words that have been nesting in my heart since that cruel night spill out of me.

'It was my time to go.'

'Who says it was your time to go? Just because some – some interfering bastard's plan went wrong, doesn't mean you have to pay the price!'

'Don't call him that,' says Luna. Her voice is quiet but shakes with anger.

'You're going to defend him?' I say, with disbelief.

'He was my best friend – my only friend – and he was trying to do what's best for us.'

'For _us_?' I whisper. That monstrous, envious creature within me rears its head. 'Did you love him?'

'Yes.'

I am suddenly unable to breathe. My deepest fear has been confirmed. But … it does not make sense! If she loved Sayer, why would she marry _me_? Why not tell him how she felt and run away with him?

'I – I don't believe it,' I say finally.

'Is it so hard to believe? He was always there for me, always looked out for me, never wavered even for a minute. What do you call that?'

' _I've_ always been there for you!'

To my utter astonishment, tears begin to form in her eyes. 'No, Harry,' she says, barely above a whisper, 'I was second choice.' It is as though she has punched me in the stomach. 'And I've finally made my peace with that. We helped each other, you see: I helped you deal with losing Ginny and you helped me continue to deal with losing my mother. But we weren't dealing with it at all.'

'It wasn't like that!'

'It was and, deep in your heart, you know it. But Will … he wanted us to confront our demons. He wanted what's best for me. I love him like you loved Hermione. And you killed him, just like you tried to kill her.'

The space between the writhing creature and Luna becomes Hermione, who is sobbing and shouting words that I cannot hear. But I do not need to hear them; they ring in my memory:

' _You promised me, Harry! You promised me you wouldn't hurt anyone!'_

My own form appears out of nothingness and yells inarticulately. The look of utter rage and frenzy in my face as I strike her down resembles the many targets I have brought to justice over the years. The Sectumsempra curse I use carves deep gashes in her chest and I leave my most loyal friend to die in the middle of the desert.

'Did she – did she die?' I say hoarsely.

'No,' says Luna, 'Neville, the man you just tried to kill, saved her life. But you _did_ kill many others, Harry – and you did it so casually and unnecessarily that it broke my heart …'

Hermione's dying form becomes Mundungus Fletcher, who darts this way and that, glancing over his shoulder in pure terror. Hooded and cloaked, a figure I know to be me walks towards him: the reconstruction has relieved me of my invisibility cloak. He dives into a pub and I kill one innocent bystander after another. Each one is like an arrow straight into my heart. Finally, I kill Mundungus in the most painful way imaginable …

The dead hags and Mundungus become Lazarus' henchman, all of them dead; Lazarus worse than dead … They transform into Narcissa, sprawled on the steps of Malfoy Manor, wide gashes across her wrists.

'She was a mother,' says Luna, her voice hard and cold, 'one of Teddy's last remaining relatives. You didn't need to kill her, she was just _there_.'

'P – Please,' I beg, 'no more.'

But the bright mist is unrelenting. Narcissa becomes a street full of Muggles. There is a crater in the centre and the bodies of uniformed Muggle policeman lie scattered amongst the wreckage of burning metal.

'All of them had families: mothers, wives, children. Some of them were people I grew up with.'

The scene of Walcott Square shifts and, in a whirl of colour, becomes the hallways of Grimmauld Place. Every now and again, Teddy runs in and stares hopefully at the door.

'You abandoned your godson,' says Luna.

'I – I visited him,' I say, clutching at this one last redeeming factor.

'You visited him once. And what pearls of wisdom did you lay on the innocent ears of a ten year old boy?'

' _The ends justify the means, Teddy. Sometimes, when you're chasing after something that's right, you have to do things that are wrong.'_

'I … didn't mean …'

'Is that how you'd have raised our children, Harry?' demands Luna. 'Would you have sat them on your lap and said: "breaking into loved ones' tombs is fine as long as you're doing it to create a Horcrux"?'

'That wasn't –'

Luna draws herself to her full height. 'You killed my best friend and created a Horcrux! What, ultimately, is the difference between you and Voldemort?'

'Love,' I rasp. 'Everything I did, I did for love!'

'No,' says Luna, suddenly calm, 'don't pretend you did it for me, or for love. You did it for yourself. The man I married would never be so … so cowardly. Look at what you've become.'

A magnificent mirror in an ornate gold frame rises from the ground and blocks Luna and the creature from view. It looks so much like the Mirror of Erised that I half expect to find my family staring back at me. But what I see is far, far worse. A skeletally thin man stands there; his ghostly white skin stretches over bone. He has hollowed cheeks and ruby red eyes. If it were not for the messy black hair and lightning bolt scar, I would have sworn it was not me.

Finally, I see what Luna sees; what Neville and William saw. The killings, kidnapping Alice, creating a Horcrux; they all mean one thing: I have become a Dark Lord.

I think of what my parents would say if they could see me now. Or Sirius, or Remus, or, worst of all, Dumbledore. Dumbledore, whose tomb I broke into, Dumbledore whose wand I stole and used to commit countless atrocities. They would never forgive me … and nor will Luna.

And then my heart bursts.

Searing, white hot pain such as I've never felt explodes out of my chest. My head feels as though it is being crushed. I long for death, to feel nothing, because that would be better than this agony. I am blind to my surroundings. There is only the destruction of every fibre of my being.

I am on the verge of slipping into the warm embrace of the darkness when it stops. The only evidence of what I have experienced is a scratchiness in my throat that signals I have been screaming.

I am lying in the foetal position, naked as the day I was born. I sit up and look once more in the mirror, dreading what I will find there. Brilliant green eyes stare back at me. I am still thin, but some colour has returned. I raise my hand to touch my face, hardly daring to believe it.

As the mirror begins sinking into the floor, I realise that I can no longer hear the sound of the struggling child. The gilded frame of the mirror disappears and I see that the child, the damaged remains of my Horcrux, has disappeared. I am whole again.

Luna walks towards me and is smiling; not the dreamy, far-away smile I am accustomed to, but a blazing smile that lights up her face and makes her look truly beautiful.

'Luna …' My voice is hoarse, barely audible.

Luna reaches down and touches my face. Her hand is warm and wonderful against my cheek and I lean into it. I close my eyes for a moment, taking it in, before looking up at her.

'I'm sorry,' I croak, 'I'm so sorry for everything.'

'You've been punished,' says Luna. Her voice is no longer harsh or cold, but full of love.

'Can you … ever forgive me?'

Luna effortlessly pulls me up to my feet. I long to hold her for eternity.

'Only if you can forgive me,' she whispers, gently stroking my face.

I cup her face with my hands and she looks deep into my eyes. 'You've done nothing to warrant forgiveness.'

She relaxes in my grip and twenty years of tension seeps out her. She is healed at last.

'You can't come back with me, can you?' I say. White smoke begins to surround us.

Luna's eyes never leave mine. 'You know the answer to that.'

I feel seventeen again as I ask, 'I've got to go back, haven't I?'

'You know the answer to that.'

The smoke thickens and the answer comes to me: deep down, I have known it all along. The unique set of circumstances that allowed me to return from here ten years ago no longer hold, nor would they ever appear again. Nothing anchors me to the land of the living. No spell can reawaken the dead, and I am now one of them.

I smile widely at my love and kiss her deeply one last time.

A scarlet steam engine materialises. Hand in hand, we disappear in to the white smoke in search of the next great adventure.


	21. Epilogue

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on the characters and world created by JK Rowling. Anything you do not recognise is my own creation. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

– _Epilogue –_

* * *

The entire wizarding world had come to mourn the Boy Who Lived. Hundreds of chairs had been set out in neat rows, all facing the spot where Harry Potter's body had been found days before. A small platform had been erected and a tree-sized, bulky mass was hidden underneath a gargantuan brown sheet. Teddy knew exactly what it held: he had seen this memory more times than he cared to remember.

The last rays of the autumn sun beamed down on the guests as they shuffled along the aisle that ran through the centre of the rows. There were important Ministry officials: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic at the time, took a seat in the front row and was joined by Boris Bogand, his eventual successor; Gawain Robards, Teddy's old boss; Aunt Hermione, who was being supported by Uncle Ron, Teddy's new boss; and Great-Uncle Arthur who, alone of the Ministry contingent, showed signs of real grief.

Uncle Bill and his family filed in behind them, Aunt Fleur holding newly-born Louis Weasley. Teddy's stomach did the somersault it normally did when he spotted his grandmother, alive and well, clutching her grandson's hand. His nine year old self was mousy-haired and ashen-faced.

Then there were old classmates of Uncle Harry's; witches and wizards who had fought alongside him at the Battle of Hogwarts. Alone of this contingent, Teddy recognised his Uncle George, who was carefully guiding Aunt Ginny, whose hair was white and wispy, and whose eyes were overlarge and blank, to a seat next to the other Weasleys.

Still more witches and wizards poured in and filled the seats: Professor McGonagall headed a group of Hogwarts professors that included Professor Slughorn, Teddy's old Head of House; a number of shopkeepers Teddy did not know by name; international celebrities he was sure Uncle Harry had never met (save Viktor Krum); and even a small group of house-elves, Kreacher among them. Hagrid, who was openly weeping, was the last to arrive with Grawp. They settled into reinforced seats at the back next to a group of wary goblins.

Neville Longbottom, the man Teddy had been hunting for the best part of a decade, was conspicuous in his absence.

An ancient, tufty-haired man in black robes slowly hobbled on to the platform. He tapped his throat with his wand and began to speak.

'We are gathered here today to mourn the passing of a wizard whose life was cruelly taken before his time. Though his life was short, his deeds were great and many …'

Teddy phased out the eulogy and prowled along the back row to the edges of the memory. He peered into the blurry mist. He knew, from dozens of trips to the graveyard, that the mist held more rows of graves, a winding lane and a large stone cross. That was where, he guessed, Longbottom was hiding during the service. But as soon as the eulogy was over, he would make a mistake and briefly show his face.

Teddy waited with the kind of patience only Aurors possessed. On cue, the witch in the back row sneezed: the thirty second warning.

'… And that is how we will remember him, in our hearts and in our minds, for the rest of time.'

As the last, magically amplified words of the Master of Ceremonies died in the air, two things happened at once. First, the giant sheet disappeared and revealed a Grawp-sized statue of Uncle Harry holding two wands and looking more heroic and victorious than he had ever been in life. Second, Longbottom appeared out of the mist for a fleeting second. He had the gall to wear mourning robes of black and an expression of grief. As if he had not killed Teddy's godfather.

The shuffling of chairs heralded the end of proceedings, and Longbottom sunk into the mist, never to be seen again.

Until today.

Out of pure habit, Teddy made a beeline for his younger self. His grandmother was fussing over him, as she always did, but his younger self was preoccupied staring at his own shoes. A number of Ministry officials from the first few rows shook his grandmother's hand, or laid a hand on her shoulder, or, in the case of Bogand, nodded curtly as they swept past. None of them paid the devastated boy any mind; after all, he was the son of a werewolf, not the last pure-blood scion of a once great and noble house.

Once the throng had made their way towards the exit, pressing flesh and proving how well they knew the _legendary_ Harry Potter as they did so, Aunt Hermione limped over to Teddy and his grandmother. Ron followed behind, surreptitiously applying privacy charms. She alone of the mourners paid Teddy any heed. She fixed him with a long, searching look, as though taking the measure of him. It was the same look she had often given him at Hogwarts when she caught him staring into space in her History of Magic class.

Teddy's grandmother was the first to break the silence: she took Aunt Hermione's hands in her own and said, 'I can't imagine what you're going through. I know how much you meant to each other.' Teddy's grandmother lifted her head and met Uncle Ron's eyes. 'All of you.'

Uncle Ron's hands were balled into white fists; he could only manage a terse nod.

'Thank you, Andromeda,' said Aunt Hermione.

Teddy's grandmother dropped her voice so young Teddy would not hear. 'Is it _true_?' she whispered.

Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione shared a meaningful look. Aunt Hermione gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head and Uncle Ron's frown deepened.

'I'm afraid it is,' said Aunt Hermione. 'The Aurors confirmed there was a duel between them, and the Department of Mysteries have worked out that _he_ is master of _The Wand_.' Aunt Hermione was placing careful emphasis so as not to alert Teddy's younger self to the subject matter.

Teddy's grandmother looked uncharacteristically shaken. She shook her head repeatedly before saying, 'But it – it can't possibly be true! He's such a sweet boy and loves Harry like a brother …'

'I know,' said Aunt Hermione, her face pained, 'but all those atrocities were committed by _The Wand_. We also have Hagrid and Minerva's testimony that _he_ had been to Hogwarts not long after it was stolen; he was covering his tracks, you see.'

'But _why_?' breathed Teddy's grandmother. Uncle Ron looked fit to burst, reined in only by Aunt Hermione's gentle caress of his arm.

'There's no clear motive,' said Aunt Hermione, 'but we understand that there was altercation between them a few weeks ago. H – Harry saved Alice from the wizard who attacked Bill and his family. _He_ came back from work to find Alice gone … apparently he accused Harry of kidnap.'

Aunt Hermione finished the tale with a look of deep disgust plastered across her face. Teddy's grandmother was clearly lost for words.

'This is _bullshit_!' snarled Uncle Ron, who promptly turned on his heel and stormed off.

Aunt Hermione showed no signs of embarrassment or anger at his outburst; she merely rested against the back of one of the chairs.

'What of poor little Alice?' said Teddy's grandmother, who had finally regained her composure. 'By law, she should come to me.'

Aunt Hermione dropped her gaze. 'She's gone, Andromeda. Ron's first assignment was to take her into Ministry custody but … he was beaten to the punch. Immediately after the incident, _he_ came to collect her from Bill's family. Now they're Merlin knows where.'

'But he surely won't harm his own daughter?' cried Teddy's grandmother, regarding Hermione as though she had parted with her senses.

'Goodness no,' said Aunt Hermione. 'Alice is safe … but life on the run is no way for a child to be raised. I only hope Ron and his team catch up with him …'

'But you can't suggest that he will evade the Aurors! He's a pure-blood with no skill in such things.'

Aunt Hermione's lips narrowed to a thin line and she gave an unconvincing, 'Of course they'll catch him.'

Aunt Hermione took advantage of a lull in the conversation and rummaged around her beaded handbag. She withdrew Uncle Harry's invisibility cloak. Carefully, she lowered herself into the chair next to Teddy's younger self.

She grasped Teddy's hand in her own and said, 'Your godfather loved you, Teddy. There's … nothing he wouldn't have done for you.' Her eyes shimmered with tears but the boy next to her did not acknowledge her.

'He left everything he had in the world to you,' she continued. 'Right now, that's not going to mean very much to you, but when you're older, you'll come to understand that this inheritance isn't about gold in a vault.' She gently placed the invisibility cloak in Teddy's lap.

'Against my better judgment, I'm going to give you Harry's cloak now, before you come of age. This is a precious thing, Teddy; it's been in Harry's family for generations. Your father and Harry's father were often seen disappearing into it, and I can't tell you the number of times it saved Harry's life. You have to promise to look after it, ok?' Teddy's younger self showed no sign that he had heard her. Aunt Hermione placed a finger under his chin and tilted his head so he had no choice but to look at her. 'Use it well.'

Teddy rose out of the Pensieve and landed on the wooden floor of his hut. He rose to his feet, filled with that hot sense of determination that always washed over him after watching that particular memory. He knew how close he now was to finding the man who killed his godfather. It had taken years of research to narrow down the list of likely hiding spots to this Thai jungle just north west of Bangkok, thanks in part to Uncle Ron putting him on missions whenever Teddy asked for holiday. There were times when he was close to giving up, but watching that memory, his worst memory, always galvanised him.

Teddy checked his watch: five pm. The girl the locals knew as _Farang_ was due to pick up her weekly order of fish from the village. Teddy wrapped himself in his godfather's invisibility cloak, silenced his feet with a tap of his wand, and stepped outside.

The air was so hot and muggy that within seconds, Teddy's long fringe clung to his forehead. Reluctantly, Teddy screwed his face up in concentration and he could feel his usual lion's mane retract into a buzz cut. He made his eyebrows as thick as possible to catch the sweat dripping down his forehead.

Satisfied, Teddy searched the haphazard collection of shabby bamboo huts, each one raised off of the muddy ground by long, spindly stilts such that, together, they looked like of a siege of herons. The fisherman's hut was on the edge of the small village and brushed up against the dense jungle beyond. This, Teddy surmised, was why Alice Longbottom had chosen this particular village as her grocer.

Teddy leaped from hut to hut, landing silently and cat-like each time, until he reached the fisherman's home. The outstretched tendrils of the jungle canopy partly covered the hut and provided some shelter from the angry sun. Teddy was about to move in to the shade when the old wooden door creaked open. A woman in her mid-twenties emerged carrying a brown package; she was so tanned she might be mistaken for one of the locals if not for her blonde hair. She wore a simple vest and shorts combination that hugged a lean body which spoke of a life on the run. Teddy noticed that she didn't have her wand: she had become complacent.

Teddy followed Alice as she climbed down the ladder and disappeared into the heart of the jungle. She weaved in and out of the trees noiselessly with the expertise of a local. Her pace combined with the darkness – the thick canopy above squeezed out the sunlight – made tracking her a tricky task. Deeper and deeper into the jungle they went, and the trees began to close in on them. The rising buzz of mosquitos told Teddy they had managed to breach the cloak; his only defence was taking it off and risk being made by Alice.

It took nearly all of Teddy's self-control not to cry out when something bit his ankle. Alice, it seemed, was immune to these creatures; she pressed on unharmed. Teddy could only make out her bobbing blonde hair through the curtain of pain.

Finally, she turned right and, so suddenly that it had to be magic, they came to a circular clearing. After the dense jungle, it seemed like a mirage: the air was cool and crisp rather than suffocating and humid, the grass was green and mown rather than patchy and muddy, and there was a cosy Tudor cottage in the centre, an incongruous slice of England.

Alice abruptly turned around and said, 'You can come out now, Teddy.'

Teddy froze: _nobody_ could see through his cloak. It then occurred to him that she could have easily been spying on him in the village just as much as he was spying on her. He took off his cloak; after all, he was armed and she was not.

Alice looked at him with wonder, as though he were some great treasure she had lost long ago. Before he had time to draw his wand, she dropped her package, ran at him and enveloped him in a crushing hug.

'Teddy,' she whispered, and Teddy could not help but notice her intoxicating, flowery perfume, 'it's so – so wonderful to see you again.'

Bewildered, Teddy patted her on the back. Then he remembered why he was here and pushed her away. He could not make contact with her: the worst thing he could do was get attached. He trained his wand on her and a look of hurt flashed across her pretty face.

'I'm sorry, Alice.'

'Wait, Teddy –'

' _Stup –'_

'I know you're here to kill my dad!'

The curse died on Teddy's lips. She _knew_?

'Just hear me out,' she said breathlessly, 'before you make a huge mistake.'

Teddy looked around and tried to sniff out the trap. He cast a _Homenum Revelio_ but it revealed nothing.

'We're all alone,' said Alice urgently. 'Please just hear what I've got to say.'

Teddy looked into Alice's small, brown eyes and tried to reach out with his basic Legilimency. He found no hint of deception or lies; she was either telling the truth or was an accomplished Occlumens.

'You know why I'm here,' said Teddy. 'I'm sorry, but I have to get justice.'

'My dad never killed Harry Potter,' she said fiercely.

'There's irrefutable evidence –'

Alice shook her head and her face contorted into a snarl. 'No, the only evidence out there is the evidence my dad _chose_ to plant there.'

'Are you trying to tell me he framed himself?'

'Yes.'

'You're insane,' said Teddy, and he raised his wand again.

'Wait,' said Alice again. 'Think of what Harry Potter represents to the wizarding world. How do people see him?'

'He's a hero,' said Teddy. 'He never thought of himself, only of others –'

'Right, he shows each new generation of witches and wizards that light always triumphs against dark, that power corrupts, and all that rot. Now imagine for a second that it came out that this legendary figure was corrupted by love, that one power the light has over the dark. That love could turn people to the dark side. There's no telling what harm that would do to the wizarding world!'

'You shut your mouth about my godfather!' cried Teddy, but some morbid curiosity prevented him from Stunning her.

'No, Teddy, you have to know the truth about your godfather. My dad went in to exile because of him: he, Ron and Hermione agreed that it was better for everyone if my dad took the blame for your godfather's crimes. He's been here all these years, training new recruits for Bogand –'

'So, what, my godfather killed himself?' said Teddy derisively.

'Your godfather –'

'I know he killed that Healer, alright!' Teddy took grim pleasure from the surprise on Alice's face. 'Is that what you're getting at? I know about that cover-up. But what you don't know is that that bastard killed Aunt Luna! And save the holier-than-thou gospel: the means justify the ends. Sometimes, when you're chasing after something that's right, you have to do things that are wrong.'

'You're quite wrong,' said a quiet, male voice.

Teddy whirled around and, to his astonishment, saw Neville Longbottom standing just outside his cottage door. Reacting on instinct, Teddy yelled, ' _Expelliarmus!_ '

A wand flew out of Longbottom's pocket, arced gracefully through the air and landed in Teddy's outstretched hand. A warm ripple of power surged up Teddy's arm; he looked down to find, with a jolt, that this was one of the wands his godfather held in his statue. Teddy glanced up and saw a brief, triumphant look pass across Longbottom's face.

Alice ran over to her father and stood in front of him, shielding him from Teddy's vengeance.

'It's alright, darling,' he said softly, 'Teddy's no killer.'

Teddy stood frozen to the spot: this was his chance, his moment had arrived, but why could he do nothing but gape at the man who had killed his godfather? He stood there for long moments, staring transfixed at Longbottom, who looked back at him almost politely.

Finally, Longbottom said, 'Why don't you come inside, Teddy? I have a lot of explaining to do.'

 _ **The End**_

* * *

 _ **Acknowledgements**_

First and foremost, thanks to **Rob** , my muse and partner in this story. We first hatched Resurrexit together over eight years ago and planned to write it together. Although circumstances changed and I took it forward alone, his mark is stamped over every word and every chapter.

Secondly, thanks to my magnificent alpha and beta readers: **Taure, Portus,** and **Matt Silver**. Your comments and criticisms really shaped the story and helped me evolve as a writer.

Finally, thanks to all the guys at AFC (stretching back to 2008!): your support and encouragement helped me finally pull the story together, eight years on.

* * *

 _ **Final notes**_

This has been the most enjoyable and, at times, frustrating story to write, and I hope you enjoyed it too. Based on my experience with WLB, I'd like to pre-empt talk of a sequel: this is a self-contained story and 'The End' really is 'The End'. I'll leave it to you to imagine what happens to Neville, Alice and Teddy. This is probably the last novel-length fanfiction I'll write, and certainly the last one that involves the current canon-era characters. Thank you very much for reading.


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